jfny  Knrvcs,  JRaxors,    or  Scis- 
sors to  Grind.  " 


Bu  tier- Mil-  leek. 


fcx  iCtbrts 


SEYMOUR  DURST 


When  you  leave,  please  leave  this  hook 

Because  it  has  heen  said 
"Ever  thing  comes  t  him  who  waits 

Except  a  loaned  hook. 


Avlry  Architectural  and  Fink  Arts  Library 

(in  i  oi  Si  uuh  r  H.  I)i  rsi  ()i  n  York  Library 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2013 


http://archive.org/details/bookofnewyorkverOOarms_0 


Latest  Idea  for  Riding  in  Crowded  City  Cars 

From  Harper's  Weekly,  January  12,  1861 


Book 

of 

New  York  Verse  , 

Edited  T>y 
If-AMiLTOw  Fish  Armstrong  ■ 

Illustrated 


"TV&y  do  Hove  JVewYorJk,  my  dear? 

J  Jknotu  220 f.  Were  zny \falJier  Aere— 

And Ais ~  and  His — fAe  fhree  $Z 

Afo(?A£,j)er/iaps,  make  you  some  reply" 

ffOBunner* 


1917 

G  P  Putnam's  Sons-Neu/York- 


PS 

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,m 

AS 

Hi  H 

v 


Copyright,  19 17 

BY 

HAMILTON  FISH  ARMSTRONG 


Ubc  ftntcfeerbocfter  preae,  Hew  Korfe 


A  Professional  View  of  it 


Policeman  {off  duty)  —  "Just  to  think  of  it  !     Seven  lives 
lost  at  the  Prince  of  Wales's  wedding  !     That  comes 
of  living  in  a  place  where  there  ain't  no 
Broadway  Squad  I  " 
From  Harper's  Weekly,  April  n,  1863 


INTRODUCTION 


The  last  generation  would  likely  enough  have  looked 
upon  a  book  in  honour  of  New  York  as  a  vain  under- 
taking for  almost  unworthy  ends.  So  much  do  fancies 
change.  The  affection  which  many  of  us  feel  for  the 
city,  the  affection  which  day  by  day  it  is  becoming 
more  the  fashion  to  cultivate,  would  have  met  with 
slight  comprehension  and  considerable  ridicule  fifty 
years  ago. 

With  our  lately-regained  admiration  for  New  York, 
from  the  newest  skyscraper's  silhouette  to  the  latest 
mushroom  variation  on  ''The  Black  Cat,"  we  are 
fond  of  thinking  that  the  city  daily  grows  more  ex- 
traordinary, more  thrilling.  Relatively,  it  does  not. 
We  have  caught  up  with  it,  that's  all,  and  while  we 
grumble  as  much  as  did  our  forefathers  at  its  short- 
comings they  no  longer  entirely  eclipse  its  glories. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  opening  of  the  subway  was 
relatively  not  at  all  more  exciting  than  that  memorable 
occasion  when  Croton  Water  first  flowed  through  pipes 
into  the  city,  amid  the  huzzas  and  fusilades  of  parad- 
ing citizens.  Trinity's  spire  seemed  quite  as  impres- 
sive— actually  was  quite  as  impressive  and  remarkable 
— to  New  Yorkers  of  the  past  as  the  Woolworth  Tower 
is  to  those  of  the  present.  The  fashionable  events 
which  took  place  at  the  Battery,  or  on  Second  Avenue, 
or  on  Broadway  in  the  years  when  all  the  town  walked 

iii 


iv 


Introduction 


there  (only  on  the  west  side,  of  course),  or  along  Colon- 
nade Row,  or  on  Stuyvesant  or  Washington  Square,  or 
in  any  other  of  the  neighbourhoods  which  in  successive 
generations  have  had  aristocratic  approval,  were  no 
less  gay  than  are  our  machine-made  functions  to-day. 
Politics  remains  the  same  sort  of  a  game,  though 
probably  never  again  to  be  played  with  the  complete 
abandon  of  a  Tweed.  The  stranger  who  remarks 
platitudinously  that  there  isn't  a  "home"  left  in  New 
York  is,  as  is  the  way  of  strangers,  wrong.  Only  the 
scavenger  pigs  have  disappeared,  along  with  the  omni- 
buses and  sleighs  from  Broadway  and  the  Indians  from 
the  tobacconists.  New  York  is  still  here,  and  little 
changed  inside. 

Poetry  about  both  old  and  new  New  York  is  in- 
cluded in  this  collection.  Many  will  be  able  to  fill  in 
from  pleasant  recollection  or  tradition  some  of  the 
gaps  necessarily  left  between  the  scenes  in  the  follow- 
ing pages.  In  this  connection  it  is  well  to  mention 
that  the  dates  are  merely  approximate. 

The  poems  in  the  first  part  of  the  book  are  arranged 
in  order  of  events,  those  in  the  latter  half  more  or  less 
according  to  locality.  The  notes  not  in  parentheses 
which  appear  at  the  head  of  some  of  the  poems  are 
the  authors*. 

The  choice  of  poems  has  not  been  nearly  so  limited 
as  might  be  imagined.  My  sister,  Margaret  Arm- 
strong, has  helped  me  with  every  part  of  the  book. 
And  as  a  result  of  our  interest  in  obscure  library  top- 
shelves  the  dust  shrouds  have  been  brushed  away  from 
many  volumes  of  verse,  and  many  forgotten  bits  about 
the  old  town  have  been  brought  to  light.  We  have 
been,  as  a  rule,  successful  in  including  only  poems 
which  measure  up  to  quite  respectable  standards  both 


Introduction 


v 


of  poesy  and  general  interest.  But  in  one  or  two  cases 
either  the  exceptional  interest  of  the  subject  or  the 
quaintness  of  the  telling  has  seemed  more  than  to 
counterbalance  a  lack  of  poetical  merit. 

I  am  not  able  to  mention  individually  all  the  authors 
who,  besides  giving  permission  for  the  use  of  their 
work,  have  helped  me  by  suggestions  and  by  allowing 
me  to  see  poems  not  yet  in  print;  without  exception 
my  many  requests  and  questions  met  with  pleasant 
and  generous  attention.  I  am  especially  indebted  to 
Mr.  Clinton  Scollard,  an  author  who  is  also  an  author- 
ity; to  Mr.  Alfred  Noyes,  to  Mrs.  Frederick  Gore  King, 
of  the  New  York  Society  Library;  to  Mr.  Ferris  Lock- 
wood,  a  Director  of  the  New  York  Public  Library,  and 
to  many  willing  employees  of  that  institution. 

At  the  moment  New  York  and  its  libraries  are  far 
away.  That  this  also  was'the  case  during  the  correc- 
tion of  much  of  the  proof  must  be  my  excuse  if  re- 
vision has  not  been  as  minute  as  would  have  been 
possible  in  less  topsy-  turvy  times. 

Hamilton  Fish  Armstrong. 

September  ist.,  1917 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


All  rights  on  poems  in  this  volume  are  reserved  by  holders  of 
the  copyright.  Thanks  are  due  to  the  publishers  and  others 
named  in  the  following  list  for  express  permission  to  include 
poems  from  the  volumes  mentioned. 

Messrs.  D.  Appleton  &  Co. — From  "Bryant's  Poems"  by 
William  Cullen  Bryant. 

Mr.  Richard  G.  Badger— From  "The  Electric  Spirit, "by 
Marion  Couthoy  Smith;  from  "The  Guest  at  the  Gate"  and 
"Poems"  by  Edith  M.  Thomas;  from  "Poems"  by  Seldon  L. 
Whitcomb. 

The  Bobbs-Merrill  Co. — From  "Poems"  (cop.  1906)  by  Mere- 
dith Nicholson. 

Mr.  E.  F.  Bonaventure — From  "Poems  of  Men  and  Events" 
by  George  Alfred  Townsend. 

The  Cameo  Press — From  "The  Cup  of  Comus"  by  Madison 
Cawein. 

The  Century  Co. — From  "Songs  for  the  New  Age"  by  James 
Oppenheim;  from  "Challenge"  by  Louis  Untermeyer.  From 
the  Century  Magazine,  "The  Night  Court"  by  Ruth  Comfort 
Mitchell. 

Concord  Printing  Co. — From  "Legends  of  the  Netherlands" 
by  Gideon  J.  Tucker. 

Mr.  B.  W.  Dodge— From  "The  Quiet  Singer"  by  Charles 
Hanson  Towne. 

Messrs.  Doubleday  Page  &  Co. — From  "By  and  Large"  and 
"Tobogganing  on  Parnassus"  by  Franklin  P.  Adams;  from 
"Shoes  of  Happiness"  by  Edwin  Markham. 

Messrs.  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co.— From  "Collected  Poems"  by 
Austin  Dobson. 

The  Funk  and  Wagnalls  Co.— From  "The  Buntling  Ball"  by 
Edgar  Fawcett. 

vfi 


viii 


Acknowledgments 


Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers — From  "Poems"  by  Dana  Burnet; 
from  "Nothing  to  Wear,  and  Other  Poems"  by  William  Allen 
Butler;  from  "The  Laughing  Muse"  by  Arthur  Guiterman;  from 
"Dreams  and  Dust"  by  Don  Marquis;  from  "Sun  and  Shade" 
by  Louise  Morgan  Sill. 

Messrs.  Henry  Holt  &  Co. — From  "The  Blue  and  The  Gray" 
by  Marion  Sibley  Finch. 

The  Houghton  Mifflin  Co. — The  selections  from  Thomas  Bailey 
Aldrich,  Anna  Hempstead  Branch,  Florence  Earle  Coates,  Flor- 
ence Wilkinson  Evans,  Richard  Watson  Gilder,  Emma  Lazarus, 
William  Vaughn  Moody,  Robert  Haven  Schauffler,  Clinton 
Scollard,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  and  John  Greenleaf 
Whittier  are  used  by  permission  of,  and  by  special  arrangement 
with,  Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  authorized  publishers  of  their  works. 

Mr.  B.  W.  Huebsch— From  "The  Vaunt  of  Man,  and  Other 
Poems"  by  William  Ellery  Leonard. 

Mr.  Mitchell  Kennerley — From  "Verse"  by  Vance  Thompson; 
from  "Manhattan"  by  Charles  Hanson  Towne. 

The  John  Lane  Co. — From  "New  Poems"  by  Richard  Le 
Gallienne;  from  "Herbs  and  Apples"  by  Helen  Hay  Whitney. 

The  J.  P.  Lippincott  Co. — From  "Poems"  by  Andrew  E. 
Watrous. 

The  Macmillan  Co. — From  "The  Overture,  and  Other  Poems" 
by  Jefferson  Butler  Fletcher;  from  "The  Congo"  by  Vachel 
Lindsay;  from  "The  Sistine  Eve,  and  Other  Poems"  by  Percy 
MacKaye;  from  "The  Man  Against  the  Sky"  and  "The  Town 
Down  the  River"  by  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson;  from  "Dorian 
Days"  by  Wendell  Phillips  Stafford;  from  "Rivers  to  the  Sea" 
by  Sara  Teasdale;  from  "Poems"  by  Mrs.  Schuyler  Van  Rens- 
selaer; from  "Lyrical  Recreations"  by  Samuel  Ward. 

The  McClure  Co. — From  "Lincoln"  by  Edwin  Markham. 

Mr.  David  MacKaye — From  Walt  Whitman's  poetical  works. 

Mr.  Thomas  Bird  Mosher — From  "The  Rose- Jar"  by  Thomas 
S.  Jones,  Jr. 

Oxford  University  Press — From  "Towards  the  Uplands"  by 
Lloyd  Mifflin. 

The  Page  Company — From  "Poems"  by  Charles  G.  D. 
Roberts. 

Princeton  University  Press — From  "A  Book  of  Princeton 
Verse." 

Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons — From  "The  Garden  of  Years" 


Acknowledgments 


ix 


by  Guy  Wetmore  Carry  11;  from  "The  Breath  of  the  World"  by 
Starr  Hoyt  Nichols;  from  "Ballads"  by  George  Lansing  Ray- 
mond; from  "Helen  of  Troy,  and  Other  Poems"  by  Sara  Teas- 
dale;  from  "The  Iron  Muse"  by  George  Curtis  Underwood. 

Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons — From  "Poems  of  H.  C.  Bun- 
ner"  (cop.  1884,  1889);  from  "Poems  of  Henry  Van  Dyke"  (cop. 
1 9 1 1 ) ;  from  ' '  Bramble  Brae ' '  by  Robert  Bridges ;  from  ' '  Hesperus, 
and  Other  Poems "  by  Charles  de  Kay;  from  "Dreams  and  Days " 
by  George  Parsons  Lathrop.  From  Scribner's  Magazine,  "The 
Towers  of  Manhattan"  by  Don  Marquis,  "The  Shadowy  City 
Looms "  by  Lloyd  Mifflin,  "Three  O'Clock "  by  Ridgely  Torrence, 
"Le  Grenier"  by  Robertson  Trowbridge. 

Messrs.  Sherman,  French  &  Co. — From  "Poems"  by  Chester 
Firkins;  from  "The  Prison  Ships"  by  Thomas  Walsh;  from 
"Love  and  Liberation"  and  "The  Human  Fantasy"  by  John 
Hall  Wheelock. 

Messrs.  Smith  and  Sale — From  "Manhattan"  by  John  Myers 
O'Hara. 

Messrs.  Sturgis  and  Walton — From  "Monday  Morning"  (cop. 
1909)  by  James  Oppenheim. 

The  Harr  Wagner  Publishing  Co.  of  San  Francisco — From 
"Complete  Poems  of  Joaquin  Miller." 

The  John  C.  Winston  Co.— From  "The  Wife  of  Potiphar,  with 
other  Poems"  by  Harvey  Maitland  Watts;  from  "The  Factories, 
and  Other  Lyrics"  by  Margaret  Widdemer. 

Yale  University  Press — From."Poerns"  by  Brian  Hooker. 

Also  to  The  American  Magazine  for  "At  Ellis  Island"  by  Mar- 
garet Chanler  Aldrich,  "Washington  Square,  North"  by  Walter 
Prichard  Eaton,  "Youth"  by  Samuel  McCoy,  "  New  York  from  a 
Skyscraper"  by  James  Oppenheim,  "In  New  York"  by  John 
Hall  Wheelock;  to  The  Atlantic  Monthly  for  "On  a  Subway  Ex- 
press" by  Chester  Firkins;  to  The  Broadway  Maga?ine  for  "When 
Broadway  Was  a  Country  Road"  by  Charles  Coleman  Stoddard; 
to  Harper's  Weekly  for  "Madison  Square:  Christmas"  by  Brian 
Hooker;  to  Life  for  " Intercessional "  by  M'Cready  Sykes;  to  the 
N.  Y.  Tribune  for  poems  by  the  compiler. 

In  addition  to  the  above  the  editor  begs  to  acknowledge  express 
permission  from  the  following  authors  for  the  privilege  of  using 
such  of  their  poems  as  appear  in  this  volume : 


X 


Acknowledgments 


Zoe  Akins,  Margaret  Chanler  Aldrich,  Eunice  Watrous  Brown 
(for  Andrew  E.  Watrous),  Dana  Burnet,  Howard  Russell  Butler 
(for  William  Allen  Butler),  Keith  Clark  (for  Arthur  Upson), 
Helen  Gray  Cone,  Robert  Grier  Cooke  (for  Mildred  McNeal- 
Sweeney),  Charles  de  Kay,  Walter  Prichard  Eaton,  Mary  Sib- 
ley Finch  (for  Francis  Miles  Finch),  Ina  Firkins(  for  Chester 
Firkins),  Daniel  Frohman  (for  A.  E.  Lancaster) ,  Rodman  de  Kay 
Gilder  (for  Richard  Watson  Gilder),  Robert  Grant,  Arthur  Guiter- 
man,  Brian  Hooker,  Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr.,  Ella  Malone  (for  Walter 
Malone),  George  Macdonald  Major,  Edwin  Markham,  Don  Mar- 
quis, Samuel  McCoy,  Lloyd  Mifflin,  Abbie  Leland  Miller  (for 
Joaquin  Miller),  Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell,  Malcolm  Munkittrick 
(for  Richard  K.  Munkittrick),  James  Oppenheim,  John  Myers 
O'Hara,  Shaemus  O'Sheel,  Clinton  Scollard,  Louise  Morgan  Sill, 
Chauncey  C.  Starkweather,  M'Cready  Sykes,  Ridgely  Torrence, 
Charles  Hanson  Towne,  Louis  Untermeyer,  George  Sylvester 
Yiereck  (for  himself  and  for  W.  G.  Ballantine),  Thomas  Walsh, 
John  Hall  Wheelock. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Mannahatta — Walt  Whitman  i 

Verrazano  in  New  York  Harbour — Clinton 

Scollard         ......  2 

Hudson's  Last  Voyage  {abridged) — Henry  van 

Dyke     .......  6 

Manhattan — Edwin  Markham      ...  9 

Knickerbocker — A  ustin  Dobson    .       .  .11 

The  "Goed  Vrow"  and  the  Dutch  Pilgrim 

Fathers  (abridged) — Edward  Hopper        .  13 

Wouter  Van  Twiller — Clinton  Scollard        .  15 

To  the  Patrons  of  New  Netherland — Evert 

Nieuwenhof    .        .        .        .        .  .17 

Peter  Stuyvesant's  New  Year's  Call — 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman        .        .  .18 

Epitaph  for  Peter  Stuyvesant — Henricus 

Selyns   .......  25 

The  Knickerbocker's  Address  to  the  Stuy- 
vesant Pear  Tree  (abridged) — Henry  Webb 
Dunshee         ......  26 

The  Dutch  Patrol — Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  30 

A  Legend  of  Hell  Gate — Gideon  J.  Tucker    .  34 

Maiden  Lane — Louise  Morgan  Sill        .        .  35 

xi 


xii 


Contents 


PAGE 

The  Stamp  Act  in  New  York  (abridged)— 

George  Lansing  Raymond         ...  36 

When  Broadway  Was  a  Country  Road — 

Charles  Coleman  Stoddard        ...  40 

Nathan  Hale  (abridged) — John  Mac  Mullen  42 

Nathan  Hale — Francis  Miles  Finch       .       .  47 

Bowling  Green — Louise  Morgan  Sill  .  50 

The  Congratulation  (abridged) — Jonathan 

Odell  53 

The  Wallabout  Martyrs — Walt  Whitman  54 

The  Tomb  of  the  Patriots — Philip  Freneau  .  55 

The  Prison  Ships  (abridged) — Thomas  Walsh  .  57 

Sea-Gulls  of  Manhattan — Henry  van  Dyke  .  60 

Song  for  a  Venison  Dinner  at  Mr.  Bunyan's 

(abridged) — Joseph  Stansbury    ...  62 

Evacuation  of  New  York  by  the  British 

(abridged) — Anonymous   ....  64 

The  Ball — H.  C.  Bunner      ....  65 

The  Vow  of  Washington — John  Greenleaf 

Whittier.        ......  68 

Stanzas  Occasioned  by  Lord  Bellamont's, 
Lady  Hay's,  and  Other  Skeletons  Being 
Dug  up  in  Fort  George  (abridged) — 
Philip  Freneau        .....  69 

On   the   Demolition   of   Fort   George — 

Philip  Freneau        .        .        .        .  -7° 

The    Sieur    de     Rochefontaine  —  Clinton 

Scollard  .        .        .        .        .        .  .72 


Contents 


xiii 


PAGE 

Old  St.  Paul's — Arthur  Upson      ...  74 

Nabby,  the  New  York  Housekeeper — Philip 

Freneau         ......  76 

Columbia  College  (abridged) — Josiah  Shippey  78 

An  Evening  Walk — Clinton  Scollard      .        .  81 

On  the  City  Encroachments  on  the  River 

Hudson  (abridged) — Philip  Freneau  .        .  83 

The  Old  Brevoort  Farm — Gideon  J.  Tucker  .  84 

An  Ivory  Miniature — Helen  Gray  Cone         .  87 

The  Fashions — L.  Beach       ....  90 

At  Trinity — Andrew  E.  Watrous    .        .  .91 

Lawrence  and  Ludlow — Anonymous     .       .  95 

The  Grave  of  Lawrence — Clinton  Scollard    .  96 

Descriptive  View  of  New  York  (abridged) — 

Thomas  Eaton        .....  98 

On  the  British  Blockade  (abridged) — Philip 

Freneau         .        .        .        .        .  .102 

On  the  Prospect  of  Returning  to  New  York 

after  the  War — Josiah  Shippey     .  .105 

Bronx — Joseph  Rodman  Drake       .        .  .106 

Tammany  Hall — Fitz-Greene  Halleck      .  .109 

Election  Returns  at  Tammany  Hall  (extract 
from  The  State  Triumvirate) — Gulian  Crom- 
melin  Verplanck      .        .        .        .  .110 

To  Simon — Drake  and  Halleck        .        .  .111 

The  Balloon  (abridged) — Moses  Y.  Scott        .  114 


xiv 


Contents 


PAGE 


Ode  to  Fortune — Drake  and  Halleck     .  .117 

Weehawken — Fitz-Greene  Halleck  .  .119 

Burlesque  Address  on  the  Opening  of  the 
New  Park  Theatre  (abridged)  —  Fitz- 
Greene  Halleck  .... 

On  a  Forgotten  By-Way — Andrew  E.  Wat- 
rous  ....... 

Lafayette  en  Amerique  (abridged) — Pierre 
Jean  de  Beranger  .... 

First  of  May  in  New  York — Robert  Steven- 
son Coffin  ..... 

Hoboken — Robert  Stevenson  Coffin  . 

An  Ode  for  the  Grand  Canal  Celebration 
(abridged) —  Samuel  Woodworth 

Winter  (extract  from  The  Seasons) — Samuel 
Woodworth  ..... 

The  Sweep's  Carol — George  P.  Morris  . 

Harlem  Mary — Samuel  Woodworth 

New  York  in  1826  (abridged) — George  P 
Morris  ...... 


Their  Wedding  Journey — H.  C.  Bunner 

Delicti   Novi   Eboraci — Jedediah  Hunting 
ton  ...... 

The  Pity  of  the  Park  Fountain — Nathaniel 

P.  Willis       .       .  . 
Unseen  Spirits — Nathaniel  P.  Willis 

Five  Points  (extract  from  The  Vision  of  Rub  eta) 

— Laughton  Osborn  .        .        .        .  .146 


Contents 


xv 


PAGE 

Fanny  Elssler  (extract  from  An  Elssleratic 

Romance) — Anonymous    ....  147 

City  Lyrics — Nathaniel  P.  Willis  .        .  .150 

The    Croton    Ode    (abridged)  —  George  P. 

Morris  .        .        .        .        .        .  .152 

To  the  Lady  in  the  Chemisette  with  Black 

Buttons. — Nathaniel  P.  Willis        .  .154 

The  City  (extract) — John  G.  Saxe  .        .  .156 

Spring  in  Town — William  Cullen  Bryant  .  157 

Hymn  of  the  City — William  Cullen  Bryant  .  160 

The  Dog-Star  Rages — George  P.  Morris  .  162 

Emporium   versus  New  York  (abridged) — 

Jacob  Bigelow.        .        .        .        .  .165 

The    Wedded    Flags  —  George  Washington 

Doane    .......  169 

The    Prince's    Ball     (abridged)  —  Edmund 

Clarence  Stedman    .        .        .        .  .170 

First  0  Songs  for  a  Prelude — Walt  Whit- 
man     .        .        .        .       .        .  .179 

The    March   of    the    Regiment  —  H.  H. 

Brownell        .        .        .        .        .  .183 

To  the  Tenth  Legion — Ruth  N.  Cromwell  .  185 

The  Draft  Riot — Charles  deKay  .       .  .187 

Le  Grenier — Robertson  Trowbridge        .  .189 

Siro  Delmonico — Samuel  Ward     .       .  .191 

Brown  of  Grace  Church — Peter  Marie  .  192 

The  Tweed  Ring — Anonymous      .        .  .194 


xvi 


Contents 


The  Streets  (extract  from  The  Royal  Decrees 

of  Scanderoon) — W.  0.  Stoddard  .  .195 
Dawn  in  the  City— Charles  deKay        .  .197 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck  (abridged)— John  Green- 
leaf  Whittier  .        .        .        .        .  .199 

The  "Stay  at  Home's"  Plaint— George  A. 

Baker,  Jr  201 

Ballade  of  Barristers — C.  C.  Starkweather  .  203 

A  Summer  Summary — Franklin  P.  Adams       .  205 

Hymn  Sung  at  the  Presentation  of  the 

Obelisk — Richard  Watson  Gilder      .        .  207 

The     Buntling     Ball     (extracts)  —  Edgar 

Fawcett  .......  209 

The   Burial   of    Grant  —  Richard  Watson 

Gilder    .        .       .       .       .        .  .212 

A  Ballad  of  Claremont  Hill  —  Henry  van 

Dyke     .        .        .        .        .  .  214 

Riverside — John  Myers  O'Hara     .        .  .217 

The  Last  of  the  New  Year's  Callers — H.  C. 

Bunner  .        .        .        .        .        .  .218 

The  Columbus  Parade — Starr  Hoyt  Nichols  .  220 

When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  Come  in — Guy 

Wetmore  Carryll      .        .        .        .  .221 

Intercessional — McCready  Sykes  .        .        .  224 

The  Old  Lyceum  (abridged) — A.  E.  Lancaster  .  226 

The  Regiment — John  Curtis  Underwood         .  228 

Consecrated  Ground — Edwin  Markham       .  230 


Contents 


xvii 


PAGE 

New  York  Harbor — Park  Benjamin     .       .  233 

New    York    in    Sunset  —  William  Ellery 

Leonard         ......  234 

New  York  Bay  at  Dusk — Mildred  L.  McNeal- 

Sweeney.        ......  235 

On  the  Bay — Richard  Watson  Gilder       .       .  236 

Return  to  New  York — John  Hall  Wheelock  .  237 

The  New  Colossus — Emma  Lazarus      .       .  239 

Bartholdi's    Pharos — George   Alfred  Town- 
send      .......  240 

At  Ellis  Island — Margaret  Chanter  Aldrich  .  243 

"Scum  o'  the  Earth" — Robert  Haven  Schauf- 

fler   245 

The  Hudson — Starr  Hoyt  Nichols  .        .        .  249 

The  Shadowy  City  Looms — Lloyd  Mifflin      .  250 

The  City — Marion  Couthouy  Smith        .  .252 

New  York — Don  Marquis     ....  254 

Brooklyn    Bridge    Towers — George  Alfred 

Townsend       ......  256 

Brooklyn  Bridge  at  Dawn  —  Richard  Le 

Gallienne        .        .        .        .        .  .259 

The    Towers    of    Manhattan — Don  Mar- 
quis     .......  260 

The  Moraine — John  Curtis  Underwood  .        .  264 

That  Dear  Coney  (abridged) — Chester  Firkins  265 

City  of  Ships — Walt  Whitman       .        .       .  266 


xviii 


Contents 


PAGE 

The  India  Wharf  {abridged) — Sara  Teasdale  .  268 

New  York — Wendell  Phillips  Stafford     .        .  270 

The  East  River  Bridge   Market — James 

Oppenheim     .        .        .        .        .  .271 

Lower  New  York — A  Storm — Don  Marquis  .  274 

In  Trinity  Churchyard  at  Sunset — Thomas 

S.  Jones,  Jr.  .        .        .        .        .        .  275 

The  Wall  Street  Pit— Edwin  Markham       .  276 

Pan   in   Wall   Street  —  Edmund  Clarence 

Stedman         ......  278 

A  Faun  in  Wall  Street — John  Myers  O'Hara  282 

The    Curb  -  Brokers  —  Florence  Wilkinson 

Evans    .......  283 

In  Lower  New  York — Mrs.  Schuyler  Van 

Rensselaer      .        .        .        .        .  .284 

When    Betsy   Comes   Down-Town — Louise 

Morgan  Sill    .        .        .        .        .  .285 

In  New  York — John  Hall  Wheelock       .  .286 

Monody  on  the  Astor  House — Franklin  P. 

Adams  .......  287 

A  Forgotten  Bard — Clinton  Scollard     .  .289 

Nathan  Hale — Chester  Firkins      .       .  .291 

Digging  Foundations   at   Night  —  Harvey 

Maitland  Watts       .....  293 

The  Angel  of  the  Cornice — Florence  Wilkin- 
son Evans       ......  294 

The  Woolworth  Building — Madison  Cawein  296 


Contents  xix 

PAGE 

From  the  Woolworth  Tower — Sara  Teas- 
dale       .......  298 

New  York — Florence  Earle  Coates  .  .301 

A  Dream  Temple — Edith  M.  Thomas     .       .  304 

The  Empire  City — George  Sylvester  Viereck       .  305 

New   York,   from   a   Sky-Scraper — James 

Oppenheim     ......  306 

The  Red   Box  at  Vesey   Street — H.  C. 

Bunner  .......  308 

On  Cedar  Street,  New  York — Helen  Hay 

Whitney         .        .        .        .        .  .310 

Isaak  Walton  in   Maiden    Lane  —  Percy 

MacKaye       .        .        .        .        .        .  311 

At  the  Shrine — Richard  Kendall  Munkittrick  .  313 

The  Factories — Margaret  Widdemer      .  .314 

The  Children — John  Hall  Wheelock      .  .316 

Chinatown   Unvisited  —  George  Macdonald 

Major  317 

Chinatown  Visited — George  Macdonald  Major  318 
The  Greek  Quarter — John  Myers  O'Hara  .  320 
Ballad  of  Dead  Girls — Dana  Burnet  .  .321 
Bowery  Gals — Anonymous  ....  324 
Romaios — W.  G.  Ballantine    .        .        .  .326 

A  Sweetheart:  Thompson  Street — Samuel 

McCoy  328 

Washington  Square — Richard  Watson  Gilder  .  330 

Washington  Square — James  Oppenheim        .  331 


XX 


Contents 


On  Sick  Leave — Hamilton  Fish  Armstrong 

Washington  Square,  North — Walter  Prichard 
Eaton  ..... 


Old  Trails — Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 

Old  Saws  and  See-Saws — Andrew  E 
rous  ..... 

The  Menu — Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 

Grace  Chimes — Meredith  Nicholson 

At  Half-Past  Five — Andrew  E.  Watrous 

Youth — Samuel  McCoy. 

Macaroni — Arthur  Guiterman 

Twilight  on  Sixth  Avenue — Charles 
Roberts  ..... 


Wat 


G.  D 


The  Night  Court — Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell 

Union  Square  (abridged) — Walter  Malone 

Gramercy  Park — Sara  Teasdale  . 

Chelsea — Arthur  Cleveland  Coxe 

The  Parks — Charles  Hanson  Towne 

Nothing  to  Wear  (abridged) — William  Allen 
Butler  ...... 


Madison  Square:  Christmas — Brian  Hooker 

The  Clock  in  the  Air — John  Curtis  Under- 
wood ....... 

The  Metropolitan  Tower — Sara  Teasdale 

At  the  Farragut  Statue — Robert  Bridges 


PAGE 

333 

334 
335 

339 
340 
34i 
342 
344 
347 

348 
349 
352 
354 
355 
357 

358 
362 

363 
364 
365 


Contents  xxi 

PAGE 

The  Little  Church  Around  the  Corner — 

John  Myers  O'Hara         ....  366 

Quality  Hill — Clinton  Scollard       .             .  367 

The  Gateway — Harvey  Maitland  Watts  .       .  369 

The  Switch  Yard — John  Curtis  Underwood    .  370 

Herald  Square — John  Curtis  Underwood       .  372 

Three  O'Clock — Ridgely  Torrance         .        .  373 

Night  in  New  York — George  Parsons  Lathrop  375 

Rainy  Sunday — John  Hall  Wheelock      .        .  378 

Broadway — Walt  Whitman    .       .       .  -379 

The  City — Richard  Watson  Gilder  .        .        .  380 

Lilacs  in  the  City — Brian  Hooker        .  .381 

The  Little  Fruit-Shop — Florence  Wilkinson 

Evans    .......  383 

New  York — Richard  Hovey  .        .  .384 

To  a  New  York  Shop-Girl  Dressed  for 

Sunday — Anna  Hempstead  Branch    .       .  385 

On  Broadway — George  Sylvester  Viereck  .        .  388 

In  Broadway — Vance  Thompson      .      .        .  389 

The  White  Lights — Edward  Arlington  Robin- 
son      .......  390 

After  the  Play — Hamilton  Fish  Armstrong      .  392 

A  Rhyme  about  an  Electrical  Advertis- 
ing Sign — Vachel  Lindsay       .        .        .  394 

Seven  Sandwichmen  on  Broadway — Jefferson 

Butler  Fletcher        .....  396 


xxii 


Contents 


PAGE 

In  New  York — William  Vaughn  Moody         .  397 

To  Fifth  Avenue  (extract  from  The  Baroness 

of  New  York) — Joaquin  Miller  .        .        .  400 

Fifth  Avenue  —  Spring  Afternoon — Louis 

Untermeyer     .        .        .        .        .  .402 

May  Day — Sara  Teasdale      ....  404 

Fifth   Avenue  at   Night — Charles  Hanson 

Towne   .......  405 

Rondeau  a  La  New  York — Robert  Grant         .  406 

On  the  Plaza — Bliss  Carman ....  407 

Morning  in  Central  Park — James  Oppen- 
heim  ...... 


Central  Park — John  Myers  O'Hara 

The  May  Party — James  Oppenheim 

The  Pines,  Sixty-seventh  Street — Harvey 
Maitland  Watts  .... 

Central  Park  at  Dusk — Sara  Teasdale 

Twilight  by  the  Mall — Seldon  L.  Whitcomb 

Spring  Night — Sara  Teasdale 

Whistles  at  Night — John  Hall  Wheelock 

The  Flat-Hunter's  Way — Franklin  P. 
Adams  ...... 


The  Metropolitan  Museum  of  Art — Lloyd 
Mifflin  ...... 


The  City — Edith  M.  Thomas 

On  a  Subway  Express — Chester  Firkins 


410 
412 
413 

415 
416 

417 
418 
419 

421 

422 
423 
425 


Contents 


xxiii 


PAGE 

Subway  Track- Walkers — Dana  Burnet  .  427 
Roses  in  the  Subway — Dana  Burnet     .  .428 

N.  Y. — Ezra  Pound  429 

Of  City  Flowers — Shaemus  0' Sheet  .  .  430 
New  York  Days — William  Ellery  Leonard  .  431 
Poe  '  s  Cottage  at  Fordham — Walter  M alone  .  434 
The  Fleet — Chester  Firkins  ....  436 
Manhattan — Charles  Hanson  Towne      .  .438 

VlLLANELLE    OF    ClTY    AND    COUNTRY  —  Zoe 

Akins    .......  439 

The  Enchanted  Island — Edith  M.  Thomas    .  440 

New  York — Florence  Wilkinson  Evans    .        .  442 

Golden  Hill — Hamilton  Fish  Armstrong        .  443 

The  Statue  of  Liberty,  a.  d.  2900 — Arthur 

Upson  .......  445 

Mannahatta — Walt  Whitman  .        .  446 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


The  Knife  Grinder  and  the  Buttermilk 

Man    ......  End-papers 

Cries  of  New  York,  1809. 

A  Crowded  Car         .       .       .  Half-title 

Harper  s  Weekly,  1861. 

The  Battery  in  1830         .        .  Frontispiece 
From  a  drawing  by  Charles  Burton. 

Ornament    Adapted  from    Ratzer  Map, 

1766       .....  Title-page 
Kind  permission  of  N.  Y.  Society  Library. 

A  Broadway  Policeman     .  Copyright  page 

Harper's  Weekly,  1863. 

FACING 
PAGE 

Landing  of  Hudson  8 

From  Bacon's  Hudson  River. 

Dutch  Cottage  in  Beaver  Street,  1679    .  12 

Valentine's  Manual,  1853. 

New  Amsterdam         .       .       .       .  .18 

From  an  engraving  by  J.  E.  Gavit  in  Documentary 
History  of  New  York,  copied  from  the  plate  in 
Montanus  Nieuwe  en  Onbekende  Weereld  in  State 
Library. 

The  Old  Pear-tree  26 

Valentine's  Manual,  1861. 

xxv 


xxvi  Illustrations 

FACING 
PAGE 

Hell  Gate,  1775  34 

From  an  etching  by  W.  A.  Williams.  London 
Magazine,  April,  1778. 

Pulling  down  the  Statue  of  George  III       .  42 

From  an  old  print. 

Procession  in  Honour  of  the  Federal 
Constitution         .....  64 

From  Wilson's  Memorial  History. 

Broadway  Stages  at  St.  Paul's,  1861        .  72 

Valentine's  Manual,  1861. 

Columbia  College,  1768     .       .  .  .78 

Drawn  by  Thomas  Howdell  and  engraved  by  Gavit 
and  Duthie.  Documentary  History  of  New  York, 
after  an  engraving  by  P.  Canot. 

Fashionable  Dresses,  about  1806      .       .  90 

From  an  old  fashion  plate. 

New  York  from  Governor's  Island,  1816    .  102 

Valentine's  Manual,  i860. 

Tammany  Hall  in  1830       .       .       .  .110 

Valentine's  Manual. 

Balloon  in  Park  Place,  1835    .       .  .116 

From  a  drawing  by  Charles  Burton.    The  New 
York  Historical  Society. 

New  York  from  Weehawken,  1839    .  .120 

From  a  drawing  by  W.  H.  Bartlett,  engraved  by  R. 
Wallis.    American  Scenery. 

The  Elysian  Fields,  Hoboken   .       .  .126 

Sleighs  in  Wall  Street,  1825    .       .       .  136 
From  a  print  by  Maverick.    Kind  permission  of 
Mr.  Henry  Collins  Brown. 


Illustrations  xxvii 

FACING 
PAGE 

The  Park  Fountain  and  City  Hall     .  .144 

From  an  engraving  by  James  D.  Smillie.  Graham's 
Magazine. 

Five  Points,  1827  146 

Valentine's  Manual,  1855. 

The  Croton  Water  Celebration,  1842      .  152 

From  Wilson's  Memorial  History  of  New  York. 

Franconi's  Hippodrome      .       .       .  .156 

From  a  wood  cut  of  a  drawing  by  McLenan. 

Brooks's  Clothing  Store,  Catharine  Street, 

1845  162 

Valentine's  Manual,  1864 

Fireman's    Procession,    Atlantic  Cable 

Celebration,  1858       .       .       .  .168 

Valentine's  Manual,  1861. 

Departure  of  the  Seventh  Regiment,  1861  180 

Valentine's  Manual,  1862. 

Hanging  a  Negro  at  Clarkson  Street.  The 
Draft  Riots         .       .       .       .  .188 

Harper's  Weekly,  1863. 

The  Tweed  Ring,  1871       .       .       .  .194 

From  a  caricature  by  Nast.    Harper's  Weekly,  1871. 

Broadway,  1881  204 

From  New  York  Illustrated.  Appleton. 

Riverside  Drive,  1881        .       .       .  .216 

From  New  York  Illustrated.  Appleton. 

City  Hall  Park,  about  1830     .       .       .  230 

From  a  drawing  by  W.  H.  Bartlett,  engraved  by  S. 
Lacy.   American  Scenery. 


xxviii  Illustrations 

FACING 
PAGE 

The  Bay  from  the  Telegraph  Station,  1839  .  238 

From  a  drawing  by  W.  H.  Bartlett,  engraved  by 
R.  Wallis.    American  Scenery. 

On  a  Brooklyn  Ferryboat,  1820        .       .  256 

From  the  picture  by  E.  L.  Henry.    Kind  permission 
of  Mr.  Henry. 

Steamboat  Landing.    Pier  No.  I.  North 
River  266 

From  a  drawing  by  Wade,  engraved  by  Dougal. 
Disturnell's  Views  in  New  York. 

Banks  in  Wall  Street,  1830     .       .       .  278 

From  a  drawing  by  Charles  Burton. 

Lincoln  at  the  Astor  House,  1861    .       .  288 

Harper's  Weekly,  February,  1861. 

The  Woolworth  Tower,  191 5    .       .       .  298 

From  an  etching  by  Henri  de  Ville,  Gothic  Arch. 
Permission  of  the  A  rchitectural  Record. 

The  Fly  Market.    Front  Street  and  Maiden 
Lane,  1816  312 

Valentine's  Manual,  1857. 

Towers  of  Manhattan,  191 5     .       .       .  342 

From  an  etching  by  Henri  de  Ville,  East  River. 
Permission  of  the  Architectural  Record. 

Union  Square,  1849  352 

Valentine's  Manual,  1849. 

St.  John's  Park,  1829  356 

From  the  Mirror,  1829. 

Corporal  Thompson's  Road  House,  1856    .  362 

From  an  advertising  card  of  Corporal  Thompson. 
Kind  permission  of  Mr.  Henry  Collins  Brown. 


Illustrations  xxix 

FACING 
PAGE 

Murray  Hill,  1858  368 

Valentine's  Manual,  1859. 

Snow-storm  in  New  York.    A  Harlem  Train 

at  the  Tombs,  i860       ....  370 

Harper's  Weekly,  i860. 

Broadway  and  the  Bowling  Green,  1828  .  380 

Valentine's  Manual,  1854. 

Broadway  in  1850      .....  396 

From  the  Greatest  Street  in  the  World,  by  Stephen 
Jenkins. 

Coaching  Day.    Fifth  Avenue,  1881    .       .  400 

From  New  York  Illustrated.  Appleton. 

Skating  Pond.    Central  Park,  1861  .       .  410 

Valentine's  Manual,  1861. 

Central  Park,  1881    .       .       .       .       .  416 

From  New  York  Illustrated.  Appleton. 

Proposed  Subway  in  Broadway,  1870        .  426 

Kind  permission  of  Mr.  Henry  Collins  Brown. 

Poe's  Cottage  at  Fordham,  191 7       .       .  434 

From  a  photograph  by  Charles  W.  Stoughton. 

Glimpse  of  New  York       ....  442 

From  an  etching  by  Henri  de  Ville.    Permission  of 
the  Architectural  Record. 

Dust  Storm  in  Broadway  .       .       .  Finis 

Harper's  Weekly,  1861. 

The  Clam  Man  and  the  Orange  Man.  End-papers 

Cries  of  New  York,  1809. 


The  Book  of  New  York  Verse 


MANNAHATTA 
Walt  Whitman 

My  city's  fit  and  noble  name  resume, 
Choice  aboriginal  name,  with  marvellous  beauty, 
meaning, 

A  rocky  founded  island— shores  where  ever  gayly  dash 
the  coming,  going,  hurrying  sea  waves. 


i 


VERRAZANO  IN  NEW  YORK  HARBOUR,  1524. 


Clinton  Scollard 

Verrazano,  Verrazano,  child  of  Arno's  golden  vale, 
Wooer  of  life's  great  adventure,  master  of  the  stream- 
ing sail, 

O'er  the  chartless  seas  of  silence  from  a  fellow  voyager, 
hail! 

I  can  view  you  as  the  morning  lit  your  peak  with 
windy  flame, 

On  the  day  the  West  beguiled  you  with  the  glamour  of 
its  name, 

When  the  dauntless  Dolphin  ventured  on  the  peril- 
path  of  Fame! 

Osprey-like  above  the  spindrift,  through  your  brain 

fair  dreams  had  play, 
Flushed  with  all  the  hues  of  sunset,  iridescent  as  the 

spray, 

Visions  of  the  wonder-islands  and  the  treasures  of 
Cathay 

Verrazano,  Verrazano,  I  can  mark  the  heavy  hours, — 
Striding  winds  upon  the  waters,  and  tumultuous 

tropic  showers, 
And  the  strange  bright  stars  at  midnight,  ere  you 

neared  the  Land  of  Flowers. 

2 


Verrazano  in  New  York  Harbour  3 

I  can  picture  its  allurement, — bloom  as  of  eternal 
spring, 

Attar  from  the  jasmine  blossoms  in  the  palms  and 

pines  a-swing, 
What  it  meant  to  worn  sea-rovers  spent  with  weary 

wandering ! 

But  now  oped  no  halcyon  haven,  this  was  not  the  far- 
sought  goal. 

Though  it  might  be  hung  with  garlands  like  a  radiant 
aureole ; 

Here  was  not  the  crown's  attainment  for  a  virile  sea- 
man soul! 

Verrazano,  Verrazano,  then  it  was  the  North  be- 
guiled 

With  the  magic  of  its  trumpets  blDwing  loud  and 
blowing  wild; 

And  you  listed  to  its  summons  like  an  outcast  long 
exiled. 

In  the  purple  drift  of  twilight  dappled  dune  and  wood 
slipped  by; 

Reedy  cove  and  barren  headland  rocked  beneath  a 

cloud-tossed  sky; 
While  the  taut  breeze  through  the  cordage  chanted 

sagas  clear  and  high. 

Cliffs  that  bore  no  blazing  beacon  save  the  flare  of 
savage  flames, 

Capes  that  ne'er  had  heard  a  greeting  save  the  sea- 
mew's  shrill  acclaims. 

How  you  cried  them  salutation  with  your  sweet 
Italian  names! 


4       Verrazano  in  New  York  Harbour 

Verrazano,  Verrazano, — Chesapeake  and  Delaware, 
They  to  you  were  soft  Santanna  linked  with  Palam- 
sina  fair, 

Then  you  sighted  San  Germano  in  the  crimson  evening 
air. 

San  Germano! — our  Manhattan,  virginal  with  vernal 
shores, 

Its  incomparable  harbour  opening  as  do  silvern  doors 
Swinging  to  the  sound  of  music  that  from  blended 
viols  pours. 

While  in  liquid  under-ether  at  repose  your  anchor 
hung, 

And  the  thrush's  vesper  anthem  from  the  slopes  about 
you  rung, 

Did  you  breast  the  tides  of  slumber  amid  dreams  that 
closed  and  clung? 

Verrazano,  Verrazano,  in  the  mazes  of  that  night 
Did  some  prophecy  enfold  you,  did  some  prescience 

clothe  your  sight 
With    today's  still-growing  marvels,  height  upon 

triumphant  height? 

Pendant  Babylonian  gardens,  Ninevean  temples  tall, 
Climbing  Carthaginian  ramparts,  Susan  dome  and 
Tyrian  wall, 

All  that  Rome  revealed  of  splendour — had  not  this 
majestic  thrall! — 

Had  not  this  imperious  import; — Commerce  in  exult- 
ant sway; 

Affluence  of  every  nation  moored  within  one  match- 
less bay; 

From  the  calyx  of  the  ages  a  miraculous  Cathay! 


Verrazano  in  New  York  Harbour  5 

Yours  by  virtue  of  brave  questing,  yours,  by  right  of 
primal  law, 

The  discoverer's  chrism  of  glory,  that  omnipotence  of 
awe 

Such  as  Moses  knew  on  Pisgah  when  he  raised  his 
eyes — and  saw! 

Verrazano,  Verrazano,  howso'er  you  trim  your  sail, 
Seeking  still  the  great  adventure  far  beyond  our  mortal 
pale, 

O'er  the  chartless  seas  of  silence  from  a  fellow  voyager, 
hail! 


HUDSON'S  LAST  VOYAGE,  1611 


Henry  Van  Dyke 

Son,  have  you  forgot 
Those  mellow  autumn  days,  two  years  ago, 
When  first  we  sent  our  little  ship  Half- Moon, — 
The  flag  of  Holland  floating  at  her  peak, — 
Across  a  sandy  bar,  and  sounded  in 
Among  the  channels,  to  a  goodly  bay 
Where  all  the  navies  of  the  world  could  ride? 
A  fertile  island  that  the  redmen  called 
Manhattan,  lay  above  the  bay:  the  land 
Around  was  bountiful  and  friendly  fair. 
But  never  land  was  fair  enough  to  hold 
The  seaman  from  the  calling  of  the  sea. 
And  so  we  bore  to  westward  of  the  isle, 
Along  a  mighty  inlet,  where  the  tide 
Was  troubled  by  a  downward-flowing  flood 
That  seemed  to  come  from  far  away, — perhaps 
From  some  mysterious  gulf  of  Tartary? 

Inland  we  held  our  course;  by  palisades 
Of  naked  rock  where  giants  might  have  built 
Their  fortress ;  and  by  rolling  hills  adorned 
With  forests  rich  in  timber  for  great  ships ; 
Through  narrows  where  the  mountains  shut  us  in 
With  frowning  cliffs  that  seemed  to  bar  the  stream ; 

6 


Hudson's  Last  Voyage 

And  then  through  open  reaches  where  the  banks 
Sloped  to  the  water  gently,  with  .their  fields 
Of  corn  and  lentils  smiling  in  the  sun. 
Ten  days  we  voyaged  through  that  placid  land, 
Until  we  came  to  shoals,  and  sent  a  boat 
Upstream  to  find, — what  I  already  knew, — 
We  travelled  on  a  river,  not  a  strait. 

But  what  a  river!    God  has  never  poured 

A  stream  more  royal  through  a  land  more  rich. 

Even  now  I  see  it  flowing  in  my  dream, 

While  coming  ages  people  it  with  men 

Of  manhood  equal  to  the  river's  pride. 

I  see  the  wigwams  of  the  redmen  changed 

To  ample  houses,  and  the  tiny  plots 

Of  maize  and  green  tobacco  broadened  out 

To  prosperous  farms,  that  spread  o'er  hill  and  dale 

The  many-coloured  mantle  of  their  crops; 

I  see  the  terraced  vineyard  on  the  slope 

Where  now  the  fox-grape  loops  its  tangled  vine ; 

And  cattle  feeding  where  the  red  deer  roam ; 

And  wild-bees  gathered  into  busy  hives, 

To  store  the  silver  comb  with  golden  sweet ; 

And  all  the  promised  land  begins  to  flow 

With  milk  and  honey.    Stately  manors  rise 

Along  the  banks,  and  castles  top  the  hills, 

And  little  villages  grow  populous  with  trade, 

Until  the  river  runs  as  proudly  as  the  Rhine, — 

The  thread  that  links  a  hundred  towns  and  towers 

And  looking  deeper  in  my  dream,  I  see 

A  mighty  city  covering  the  isle 

They  call  Manhattan,  equal  in  her  state 

To  all  the  older  capitals  of  earth, — 

The  gateway  city  of  a  golden  world, — 


8  Hudson's  Last  Voyage 


A  city  girt  with  masts,  and  crowned  with  spires, 
And  swarming  with  a  host  of  busy  men, 
While  to  her  open  door  across  the  bay 
The  ships  of  all  the  nations  flock  like  doves. 
My  name  will  be  remembered  there,  for  men 
Will  say,  "This  river  and  this  isle  were  found 
By  Henry  Hudson,  on  his  way  to  seek 
The  Northwest  Passage  into  Farthest  Inde. " 


MANHATTAN,  1609 


Edwin  Markham 


Where  now  the  bells  of  Trinity  are  heard, 

Once  in  the  willows  sang  a  hidden  bird, 

Where  sits  Columbia  upon  the  height, 

A  stag  pressed  ferny  hollows  all  the  night. 

Where  now  the  Tombs  disturbs  the  dark  with  sighs, 

A  lilied  pond  looked  up  to  happy  skies. 

Where  now  behind  a  Doric  colonnade 

The  busy  pens  compute  the  nation's  trade, 

There  on  the  rippling  river's  reedy  edge 

A  beaver  built  his  lodge  along  the  ledge: 

And  down  Broadway,  where  now  the  millions  pass, 

Once  ran  a  crest  of  flowers  in  seas  of  grass. 

Manhattan,  like  a  kneeling  camel,  lay, 

Humped  with  her  ridges,  looking  toward  the  Bay, 

A  hundred  springs,  a  hundred  hasty  rills 

Ran  silverly  among  the  little  hills. 

The  world  was  hushed ;  September's  windy  gold 

Was  edging  all  the  boughs  with  beauty  old ; 

And  far-blown  shreds  of  smoke 

Went  bluely  winding  over  the  woods  of  oak, 

Or  lifted  whirls  that  lived  their  little  span 

Above  the  wigwams  of  Sapponikan. 


IO 


Manhattan 


A  dusky  hunter  lurking  on  a  ledge 

Looked  to  the  south,  out  to  the  ocean's  edge 

And  suddenly  a  sea-thing  with  white  wings 

Came  like  a  moth  the  wind  of  evening  brings. 

What  could  the  wonder  be? 

What  shape  of  earth,  what  spirit  of  the  sea? 

A  look,  a  cry,  a  leap, 

And  he  went  plunging  down  the  rocky  steep, 
Flaring  through  tangled  vines  a  sudden  trail, 
Crushing  wild  mints  to  scent  the  tender  gale — ■ 
Down  the  long  ridges  ran, 
Bearing  the  tidings  to  Sapponikan. 

A  great  white  weary  ship  came  drifting  in. 

Upon  her  stern  a  painted  moon  she  bore, 

Upon  her  poop  the  starry  heaven  she  wore ; 

While  strange,  grave  men  with  beards  upon  the  chin 

Looked  out  with  wondering  eyes  and  alien  speech, 

Hailing  the  plumed  men  upon  the  beach, 

Down  plunged  an  anchor,  then  with  loud  acclaim 

Up  went  the  flag  of  Holland  like  a  flame! 


KNICKERBOCKER 


Austin  Dobson 

Shade  of  Herrick,  Muse  of  Locker, 
Help  me  sing  of  Knickerbocker! 

Boughton,  had  you  bid  me  chant 
Hymns  to  Peter  Stuyvesant, 
Had  you  bid  me  sing  of  Wouter, 
(He!  the  Onion-head!  the  Doubter!) 
But  to  rhyme  of  this  one — Mocker! 
Who  shall  rhyme  to  Knickerbocker? 

Nay,  but  where  my  hand  shall  fail, 
There  the  more  shall  yours  avail : 
You  shall  take  your  brush  and  paint 
All  that  ring  of  figures  quaint, — 
All  those  Rip  Van  Winkle  jokers, 
All  those  solid-looking  smokers, 
Pulling  at  their  pipes  of  amber, 
In  the  dark-beamed  Council  Chamber. 

Only  art  like  yours  can  touch 
Shapes  so  dignified — and  Dutch; 
Only  art  like  yours  can  show 
How  the  pine  logs  gleam  and  glow, 
Till  the  firelight  laughs  and  passes 
'Twixt  the  tankards  and  the  glasses, 


Knickerbocker 

Touching  with  responsive  graces 
All|those  grave  Batavian  faces, 
Making  bland  and  beatific 
All  that  session  soporific. 

Then  I  come  and  write  beneath : 
Boughton,  he  deserves  the  wreath 
He  can  give  us  form  and  hue — 
This  the  Muse  can  never  do ! 


THE  "  GOED  VROW"  AND  THE  DUTCH 
PILGRIM  FATHERS,  May  4,  1626 


Edward  Hopper 

The  old  Dutch  Pilgrims  were  a  solid  race, 

A  mixture  of  good  French  and  Holland  blood; 

Honest  enough  to  look  in  any  face, 

Fearless  to  brave  all  things  to  serve  their  God. 

Such  lineage  may  good  Knickerbockers  trace — 
To  noble  men  as  earth  have  ever  trod; 

And  yet  how  few,  with  ready  pen  or  tongue, 

Have  writ  their  virtues  or  their  praises  sung. 

Rich  was  the  freight  of  virtues  stowed  aboard 
The  old  Goed  Vrow  along  with  baser  stuff — 

The  things  to  trade  with,  to  increase  their  hoard, 
And  little  Holland's,  should  the  way  prove  rough; 

They  brought  no  bigot's  thongs,  nor  tyrant's  sword — 
Of  these  already  they  had  had  enough, 

And  never  thought  that  others  might  be  found 

To  need  such  helps  to  keep  their  conscience  sound. 

They  brought  the  spirit  of  Van  Tromp,  the  brave 
Dutch  Admiral,  whose  ships  once  cast  such  gloom 

On  English  shores,  and  made  the  mad  bull  rave, 
When  at  mast-head  he  nailed  the  symbol  broom 

To  show  he  swept  the  seas  from  wave  to  wave, 
As  careful  housewife  sweeps  a  dirty  room ; 

13 


14  "Goed  Vrow"  and  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 


Hence  New  York  masts  stand  thick  like  forest  trees, 
And  hence  our  conquering  navy  sweeps  the  seas 

I  would  delight  to  tell  if  I  had  time, 

How  Santa  Claus  came  with  them  o'er  the  deep 
To  mollify  the  rigours  of  our  clime, 

To  teach  good  Dutchmen  how  to  eat  and  sleep, 
To  toast  each  other  without  harm  or  crime, 

Their  wagon- wheels  in  well-worn  ruts  to  keep, 
And  guide  them  in  the  good  old  ways  of  yore, 
In  which  our  fathers'  wagons  went  before. 

And  how  he  instituted  New- Year's  calls 
To  tie  the  knot  of  Friendship  once  a  year, 

And  mend  its  breaches,  rent  by  windy  squalls, 
With  sweetened  pastry  and  such  dainty  gear; 

To  feed  true  love,  until  the  palate  palls, 
With  kruller,  olekook,  and  doughnut  cheer, 

And  make  the  whole  town  stagger  with  the  joys 

Of  jocund  youth  and  jolly  older  boys. 

"  Ren  dracht  maakt  niacht,  " — In  Union  there  is  might — 
Was  our  Dutch  Pilgrims'  motto.    Heart  and  hand 

United  in  the  cause  of  God  and  right 

Shall  bind  the  nation  with  a  granite  band, 

Entwined  with  purest  flowers  and  wreaths  of  light ;  

Divided  we  shall  fall,  united  stand  ! — 

God  bless  our  fathers'  memories  forever 

For  those  strong  words  that  bind  our  States  together 


WOUTER  VAN  TWILLER,  1633 


Clinton  Scollard 

When  Wouter  Van  T wilier  sailed  over  the  sea, 
A  shrewd  store  of  wit  in  his  noodle  had  he; 
And  while  he  was  sent  as  the  Company's  son, 
His  eye  was  alert  to  enrich  number  one; 
It  was  his  pocket  foremost — that  busy  old  filler, — 
Very  aldermanlike  was  good  Wouter  Van  Twiller! 

A  fine  strip  of  land  if  he  chanced  to  divine 
He  straightway  bethought  him  "that  farm  shall  be 
mine! " 

And  worthily  working  this  excellent  plan, 
Erelong  he  annexed  all  Sapponikan ; 
He  pinched  like  a  mercer,  took  toll  like  a  miller; 
Truly  aldermanlike  was  good  Wouter  Van  Twiller! 

In  Minetta  Water,  when  noontides  were  blue, 
He  trouted  from  Fifth  through  to  Sixth  Avenue ; 
And  when  (it  was  frequent)  he'd  mornings  to  spare, 
He  hunted  the  duck  over  Washington  Square. 
"Times  are  ill, "  groaned  the  traders the  times  might 
be  iller," 

Replied,  with  a  wink,  crafty  Wouter  Van  Twiller. 

Gone  Wouter  Van  Twiller,  but  not  all  his  kind, 
At  least  by  the  knowing  it  thus  is  opined; 

15 


16 


Wouter  Van  Twiller 


While  chiefly  his  own,  he  was  every  man's  friend; 
His  imagewe're  likely  to  view  to  the  end ; 
You  may  see  it  today, — 'tis  our  pride  and  our 
pillar, — 

The  image  of  grasping  old  Wouter  Van  Twiller. 


TO  THE  PATRONS  OF  NEW  NETHERLAND, 

1656 


For  an  engraving  by  Adrian  vander  Donck,  who  died  in  1655, 
leaving  to  his  wife  the  colony  of  Colen-Donck,  or  Yonkers.) 

Evert  Nieuwenhof 

Still  Amstel's  ancient  burghers  live, 
And  East  and  West  extend  their  care; 

To  all  the  lands  wise  laws  they  give, 
And  to  the  beast-like  savage  there. 

New  Holland's  gardens  still  they  till 

With  unforgotten  old-time  skill. 

Why  mourn  Brazil,  full  of  base  Portuguese, 

When  vander  Donck  points  out  such  pleasant  lands — 

Where  corn  swells  golden  ears,  and  from  the  trees 
Hang  rosy  grapes,  ready  for  eager  hands? 

Men  mourn  a  loss,  and  then  in  vain  their  voice; 

But  when  their  loss  brings  gain,  doubly  rejoice. 


17 


PETER  STUYVESANT'S  NEW  YEAR'S  CALL 


i  Jan.  A.  C.  1661. 
Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

Where  nowadays  the  Battery  lies, 

New  York  had  just  begun, 
A  new-born  babe,  to  rub  its  eyes, 

In  Sixteen  Sixty-One. 
They  christen'd  it  Nieuw  Amsterdam, 

Those  burghers  grave  and  stately, 
And  so,  with  schnapps  and  smoke  and  psalm, 

Lived  out  their  lives  sedately. 

Two  windmills  topp'd  their  wooden  wall, 

On  Stadthuys  gazing  down, 
On  fort,  and  cabbage-plots,  and  all 

The  quaintly-gabled  town ; 
These  flapp'd  their  wings  and  shifted  backs, 

As  ancient  scrolls  determine, 
To  scare  the  savage  Hackensacks, 

Paumanks,  and  other  vermin. 

At  night  the  loyal  settlers  lay 

Betwixt  their  feather-beds; 
In  hose  and  breeches  walk'd  by  day, 

And  smoked,  and  wagg'd  their  heads; 
No  changeful  fashions  came  from  France, 

The  vrouwleins  to  bewilder; 


Peter  Stuyvesant's  New  Year's  Call  19 


No  broad-brimm'd  burgher  spent  for  pants 
His  every  other  guilder. 

In  petticoats  of  linsey-red, 

And  jackets  neatly  kept, 
The  vrouws  their  knitting-needles  sped 

And  deftly  spun  and  swept; 
Few  modern -school  flirtations  there 

Set  wheels  of  scandal  trundling, 
But  youths  and  maidens  did  their  share 

Of  staid,  old-fashion'd  bundling. 

— The  New  Year  opened  clear  and  cold ; 

The  snow,  a  Flemish  ell 
In  depth,  lay  over  Beeckman's  Wold 

And  Wolfert's  frozen  well; 
Each  burgher  shook  his  kitchen  doors, 

Drew  on  his  Holland  leather, 
Then  stamp'd  thro'  drifts  to  do  the  chores, 

Beshrewing  all  such  weather. 

But — after  herring,  ham,  and  kraut — 

To  all  the  gather' d  town 
The  Dominie  preach'd  the  morning  out, 

In  Calvinistic  gown; 
While  tough  old  Peter  Stuyvesant 

Sat  pew'd  in  foremost  station; 
The  potent,  sage,  and  valiant 

Third  Governor  of  the  nation. 

Prayer  over,  at  his  mansion  hall, 

With  cake  and  courtly  smile, 
He  met  the  people,  one  and  all, 
In  gubernatorial  style; 


Peter  Stuyvesant's  New  Year's  Call 

Yet  miss'd,  though  now  the  day  was  old, 

An  ancient  f ellow-f easter : 
Heer  Govert  Loockermans,  that  bold 

Brewer  and  burgomeester ; 

Who,  in  his  farm-house,  close  without 

The  picket's  eastern  end, 
Sat  growling  at  the  twinge  of  gout 

That  kept  him  from  his  friend. 
But  Peter  strapp'd  his  wooden  peg, 

When  tea  and  cake  were  ended, 
(Meanwhile  the  sound  remaining  leg 

Its  high  jack-boot  defended), 

A  woolsey  cloak  about  him  threw, 

And  swore,  by  wind  and  limb, 
Since  Govert  kept  from  Peter's  view, 

Peter  would  visit  him ; 
Then  sallied  forth,  thro'  snow  and  blast, 

While  many  a  humble  greeter 
vStood  wondering  whereaway  so  fast 

Strode  bluff  Hardkoppig  Pieter. 

Past  quay  and  cowpath,  through  a  lane 

Of  vats  and  mounded  tans, 
He  puff 'd  along,  with  might  and  main, 

To  Govert  Loockermans; 
Once  there,  his  right  of  entry  took, 

And  hail'd  his  ancient  crony: 
"Myn  Gott!  in  dese  Manhattoes,  Loock, 

Ve  gets  more  snow  as  money!" 

To  which,  till  after  whiffs  profound, 
The  other  answer'd  not; 


Peter  Stuyvesant's  New  Year's  Call 

At  last  there  came  responsive  sound: 
"Yah,  Peter:  yah,  Myn  Gott!" 

Then  goedevrouw  Marie  sat  her  guest 
Beneath  the  chimney-gable, 

And  courtesied,  bustling  at  her  best 
To  spread  the  New  Year's  table. 

She  brought  the  pure  and  genial  schnapps, 

That  years  before  had  come — 
In  the  Nieuw  Nederlandts,  perhaps — 

To  cheer  the  settlers'  home ; 
The  long-stemm'd  pipes;  the  fragrant  roll 

Of  press'd  and  crispy  Spanish; 
Then  placed  the  earthen  mugs  and  bowl, 

Nor  long  delay'd  to  vanish* 

Thereat,  with  cheery  nod  and  wink, 

And  honours  of  the  day, 
The  trader  mix'd  the  Governor's  drink 

As  evening  sped  away. 
That  ancient  room!    I  see  it  now: 

The  carven  nutwood  dresser; 
The  drawers,  that  many  a  burgher's  vrouw 

Begrudged  their  rich  possessor; 

The  brace  of  high-back'd,  leathern  chairs, 

Brass-nail'd  at  every  seam; 
Six  others,  ranged  in  equal  pairs; 

The  bacon  hung  a-beam; 
The  chimney-front,  with  porcelain  shelf; 

The  hearty  wooden  fire ; 
The  picture,  on  the  steaming  delft, 

Of  David  and  Goliah. 


Peter  Stuyvesant*s  New  Year's  Call 

I  see  the  two  old  Dutchmen  sit 

Like  Magog  and  his  mate, 
And  hear  them,  when  their  pipes  are  lit, 

Discuss  affairs  of  state; 
The  clique  that  would  their  sway  demean ; 

The  pestilent  importation 
Of  wooden  nutmegs,  from  the  lean 

And  losel  Yankee  nation. 

But  when  the  subtle  juniper 

Assumed  its  sure  command, 
They  drank  the  buxom  loves  that  were — 

They  drank  the  Motherland; 
They  drank  the  famous  Swedish  wars, 

Stout  Peter's  special  glory, 
While  Govert  proudly  show'd  the  scars 

Of  Indian  contests  gory. 

Ere  long,  the  berry's  power  awoke 

Some  music  in  their  brains, 
And,  trumpet-like,  through  rolling  smoke, 

Rang  long-forgotten  strains; 
Old  Flemish  snatches,  full  of  blood, 

Of  Phantom  ships  and  battle; 
And  Peter,  with  his  leg  of  wood, 

Made  floor  and  casement  rattle. 

Then  round  and  round  the  dresser  pranced, 

The  chairs  began  to  wheel, 
And  on  the  board  the  punch-bowl  danced 

A  Netherlandish  reel; 
Till  midnight  o'er  the  farmhouse  spread 

Her  New-Year's  skirts  of  sable, 


Peter  Stuyvesant's  New  Year's  Call 

And,  inch  by  inch,  each  puzzled  head 
Dropt  down  upon  the  table. 

But  still  to  Peter,  as  he  dream'd, 

That  table  spread  and  turn'd; 
The  chimney-log  blazed  high,  and  seem'd 

To  circle  as  it  burn'd; 
The  town  into  the  vision  grew 

From  ending  to  beginning; 
Fort,  wall,  and  windmill  met  his  view, 

All  widening  and  spinning. 

The  cowpaths,  leading  to  the  docks, 

Grew  broader,  whirling  past, 
And  checker'd  into  shining  blocks 

A  city  fair  and  vast ; 
Stores,  churches,  mansions,  overspread 

The  metamorphosed  island, 
While  not  a  beaver  show'd  his  head 

From  Swamp  to  Kalchhook  highland. 

Eftsoons  the  picture  pass'd  away; 

Hours  after,  Peter  woke 
To  see  a  spectral  streak  of  day 

Gleam  in  thro'  fading  smoke; 
Still  slept  old  Govert,  snoring  on 

In  most  melodious  numbers; 
No  dreams  of  Eighteen  Sixty-One 

Commingled  with  his  slumbers. 

But  Peter,  from  the  farmhouse-door, 

Gazed  doubtfully  around, 
Rejoiced  to  find  himself  once  more 

On  sure  and  solid  ground. 


Peter  Stuyvesant's  New  Year's  Call 

The  sky  was  somewhat  dark  ahead: 
Wind  East,  and  morning  lowery: 

But  on  he  push'd,  a  two-miles'  tread, 
To  breakfast  at  his  Bouwery. 


EPITAPH  FOR  PETER  STUYVESANT,  1682 


late  general  of  new  netherland 

Henricus  Selyns 

Here  lieth  Stuy vesant — stir  not  too  deep  the  sand ' — 
He  who  commander  was  of  all  New  Netherland . 
Unto  the  foe  perforce  he  gave  the  country  o'er; 
If  grief  and  sorrow  ever  burden  hearts,  his  heart 
Did  die  a  thousand  deaths  and  did  endure  a  smart 
Insufferable.    At  first  too  rich ;  at  last  too  poor. 


25 


THE  KNICKERBOCKER'S  ADDRESS  TO  THE 
STUYVESANT  PEAR  TREE,  1647-1857 

Henry  Webb  Dunshee 

Fam'd  Relic  of  the  Ancient  Time,  as  on  thy  form  I 
gaze, 

My  mind  reverts  to  former  scenes,  to  spirit-stirring 
days : 

Guarding  their  sacred  memories,  as  ashes  in  an  urn, 
I  muse  upon  those  good  old  times,  and  sigh  for  their 
return. 

The  scenes  by  which  thou'rt  compass'd  now,  have 
little  charm  for  me; 

They  speak  not  of  the  ancient  time,  as  thou,  time- 
honoured  tree; 

I,  therefore,  close  my  eyes  against  these  forms  of 
brick  and  stone; 

Then,  boldly,  to  my  mental  eye,  thou  loomest  up 
alone. 

And  far  and  wide,  on  ev'ry  side,  as  on  some  knoll  I 
stand, 

I  view  a  beautiful  expanse  of  rich  productive  land, 
Dotted  or  margin'd  pleasantly  with  shady  tree  or 
grove, 

Enliven'd  by  the  songs  of  birds,  which  'mid  their 
branches  rove. 

26 


The  Old  Pear-tree  Planted  by  Governor 
Stuyvesant  at  the  Corner  of  Third 
Avenue  and  Thirteenth  Street 

From  Valentine's  Manual 


The  Stuyvesant  Pear  Tree  27 

From  yonder  dustless  mansion  comes  its  lord,  whose 
heart  is  seen 

Portray'd  upon  his  countenance;  of  firm,  majestic 
mien; 

Laden  with  Nature's  precious  gifts,  he  scans  each 
orchard  tree, 

And  slowly  treads  the  well-worn  path  that  leads 
direct  to  thee. 

With  joyous  eye,  while  grateful  thoughts  his  noble 

heart  expand, 
He  looks  on  thee,  his  favourite  tree,  brought  from  the 

Fatherland 

And  lives  again  in  former  scenes,  when  life  was  in  its 
prime, 

And  finds  the  memories  of  his  youth  still  undestroy'd 
by  time. 

Anon,  a  group  of  happy  youth,  from  school  restraint 
set  free, 

Comes  shouting  round  him  merrily,  in  wild  and  joyous 
glee; 

One,  by  consent,  thy  trunk  ascends,  thy  burden'd 
boughs  to  shake, 

While  all  of  thy  delicious  fruit  most  eagerly  par- 
take. 

Hoboocken  now,  their  tutor,  comes  devoid  of  frown 
and  rod, 

And  with  the  Governor  reclines  upon  the  velvet  sod; 
Together  they  enjoy  the  sport,  again  are  young  in 
heart, 

Till,  warn'd  by  day's  decline,  they  each  for  happy 
home  depart: 


28  The  Stuyvesant  Pear  Tree 

For  in  a  gorgeous  couch  the  sun  has  calmly  sunk  to 
rest, 

Behind  Wiehacken's  tree-crowned  hills,  with  gemm'd 

and  crimson  crest! 
And  night,  o'er  forest,  glade  and  stream,  her  dusky 

mantel  throws, 
While  silence,  beckoning  to  Fatigue,  invites  to  sweet 

repose. 

Thou  saw'st  when  the  Usurper  came,  the  nation  to 
despoil, 

Of  the  dominion  exercised  upon  her  rightful  soil : 
Thou  saw'st  the  throng  that  gather'd  round  to  carry 
to  the  grave, 

Thy  lord,  the  last  Dutch  Governor — the  honest  and 
the  brave: 

When  Leisler  ruled,  who  died  by  fraud — when  Kidd 

the  Rover  sail'd; 
And  when  the  Negroes  at  the  stake  in  direful  accents 

wail'd; 

When  infant  Liberty  assay'd  to  seek  her  just  re- 
dress, 

And  Zenger  gain'd  for  aftertimes  the  Freedom  of  the 
Press : 

When  the  bold  Sons  of  Liberty  the  people's  cause 
espous'd, 

Destroy'd  the  tea,  contemned  the  stamps,  and  patriot 
zeal  arous'd; 

When  Tories  fled  clandestinely,  suspicious  of  the 
day; 

And  laurels  crown'd  the  Hundred  on  the  shores  of 
Deutel  Bay. 


The  Stuyvesant  Pear  Tree  29 

Perchance  thou  saw'st  the  patriot  band,  with  daunt- 
less Captain  Sears, 

Who,  with  his  lead,  triumphant  rode,  among  the 
people's  cheers; 

Or  gav'st  thy  fruit  to  please  the  taste  of  Clinton  and 
his  corps, 

Who  ruled,  where  British  power  will  rule  triumphant 
never  more. 

For  'twas  thy  glory  to  behold  (the  conflict  nobly 
won), 

The  entry  of  that  noble  band,  led  on  by  Washington ; 
When  the  sad  sighs  from  Wallabout  were  hush'd  by 
the  applause 

Which  fill'd  the  sky  above  the  land  where  triumphed 
Freedom's  cause. 

Thus  to  thy  shrine,  thou  ancient  tree,  will  Knicker- 
bockers hie; 

And  standing  on  their  native  soil,  beneath  their  native 
sky, 

In  contemplative  mood  recall,  those  Names  of  sterling 
worth, 

Through  whom  they  trace  their  ancestry  —  the 
Noble  Men  of  earth. 

O !  may  thy  boughs  with  blossoms  white  and  living 

fruit  be  grac'd, 
While  Knickerbocker  blood  can  be  by  Knickerbockers 

trac'd; 

Yea,  may'st  thou  from  thy  mother  earth  by  time  nor 
man  be  torn, 

Till  light  no  more  shall  bless  the  land  where  Liberty 
was  born. 


THE  DUTCH  PATROL 


Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

When  Christmas-Eve  is  ended, 

Just  at  the  noon  of  night, 
Rare  things  are  seen  by  mortal  een 

That  have  the  second  sight. 
In  St.  Mark's  church-yard  then 

They  see  the  shape  arise 
Of  him  who  ruled  Nieuw  Amsterdam 

And  here  in  slumber  lies. 

His  face,  beneath  the  close  black  cap, 

Has  a  martial  look  and  grim; 
On  either  side  his  locks  fall  wide 

To  the  broad  collar's  rim; 
His  sleeves  are  slashed;  the  velvet  coat 

Is  fashioned  Hollandese 
Above  his  fustian  breeches,  trimmed 

With  scarf-knots  at  the  knees. 

His  leg  of  flesh  is  hosed  in  silk; 

His  wooden  leg  is  bound, 
As  well  befits  a  conqueror's, 

With  silver  bands  around. 
He  reads  the  lines  that  mark 

His  tablet  on  the  wall, 
30 


The  Dutch  Patrol 


Where  boldly  Petrus  Stuyvesant 
Stands  out  beyond  them  all. 

"'Tis  well!  "  he  says,  and  sternly  smiles, 

"They  hold  our  memory  dear; 
Nor  rust  nor  moss  hath  crept  across; 

'Twill  last  this  many  a  year." 
Then  down  the  path  he  strides, 

And  through  the  iron  gate, 
Where  the  sage  Nine  Men,  his  councillors, 

Their  Governor  await. 

Here  are  Van  der  Donck  and  Van  Cortlandt, 

A  triplet  more  of  Vans, 
And  Hendrick  Kip  of  the  haughty  lip, 

And  Govert  Loockermans. 
Jan  Jansen  Dam,  and  Jansen, 

Of  whom  our  annals  tell, — 
All  risen  this  night  their  lord  to  greet 

At  sound  of  the  Christmas  bell. 

Nine  lusty  forms  in  linsey  coats, 

Puffed  sleeves  and  ample  hose! 
Each  burgher  smokes  a  Flemish  pipe 

To  warm  his  ancient  nose; 
The  smoke-wreaths  rise  like  mist, 

The  smokers  all  are  mute, 
Yet  all,  with  pipes  thrice  waving  slow, 

Brave  Stuyvesant  salute. 

Then  into  ranks  they  fall, 

And  step  out  three  by  three, 
And  he  of  the  wooden  leg  and  staff 

In  front  walks  solemnly. 


The  Dutch  Patrol 


Along  their  wonted  course 

The  phantom  troop  patrol, 
To  see  how  fares  Nieuw  Amsterdam, 

And  what  the  years  unroll. 

Street  after  street  and  mile  on  mile, 

From  river  bound  to  bound, 
From  old  St.  Mark's  to  Whitehall  Point, 

They  foot  the  limits  round; 
From  Maiden  Lane  to  Corlaer's  Hook 

The  Dutchmen's  pipjen  glow, 
But  never  a  word  from  their  lips  is  heard, 

And  none  their  passing  know. 

Ere  the  first  streak  of  dawn 

St.  Mark's  again  they  near, 
And  by  a  vault  the  Nine  Men  halt, 

Their  Governor's  voice  to  hear. 
"Mynheeren,  "  he  says,  "ye  see 

Each  year  our  borders  spread! 
Lo,  one  by  one,  the  landmarks  gone, 

And  marvels  come  instead. 

"Not  even  a  windmill  left, 

Nor  a  garden-plot  we  knew, 
And  but  a  paling  marks  the  spot 

Where  erst  my  pear-tree  grew. 
Our  walks  are  wearier  still, 

Perchance  and  it  were  best, 
So  little  of  worth  is  left  on  earth, 

To  break  no  more  our  rest?" 

Thus  speaks  old  Petrus  doubtfully 
And  shakes  his  valiant  head, 


The  Dutch  Patrol 


When — on  the  roofs  a  sound  of  hoofs, 

A  rattling,  pattering  tread! 
The  bells  of  reindeer  tinkle, 

The  Dutchmen  plainly  spy 
St.  Nicholas,  who  drives  his  team 

Across  the  roof-tops  nigh. 

"Beshrew  me  for  a  craven! " 

Cries  Petrus — "All  goes  well! 
Our  patron  saint  still  makes  his  round 

At  sound  of  the  Christmas  bell. 
So  long  as  stanch  St.  Nicholas 

Shall  guard  these  houses  tall, 
There  shall  come  no  harm  from  hostile 

No  evil  chance  befall! 

"The  yon  gens  and  the  meisjes 

Shall  have  their  hosen  filled ; 
The  butcher  and  the  baker, 

And  every  honest  guild, 
Shall  merrily  thrive  and  flourish; 

Good-night,  and  be  of  cheer; 
We  may  safely  lay  us  down  again 

To  sleep  another  year!" 

Once  more  the  pipes  are  waved, 

Stout  Petrus  gives  the  sign, 
The  misty  smoke  enfolds  them  round, 

Him  and  his  burghers  nine. 
All,  when  the  cloud  has  lifted, 

Have  vanished  quite  away. 
And  the  crowing  cock  and  steeple  clock 

Proclaim  'tis  Christmas  Day. 


A  LEGEND  OF  HELL  GATE 


A.  D.  1675 
Gideon  J.  Tucker 

A  saucy  boat  was  the  Annetje  Block 

Periauga-built  was  the  craft ; 
She  carried  at  masthead  a  crowing  cock, 

And  an  Orange  streamer  abaft. 
Her  gay  young  skipper  was  Hans  van  Loon, 

From  the  Wallabout  shore  he  hailed, 
And  all  eyes  followed  his  bounding  boat 

As  up  the  East  River  she  sailed. 

Who  was  there,  among  the  Breukelen  girls, 

As  fair  as  Lisbet  van  Pelt, 
With  her  blooming  cheeks  and  her  yellow  curls, 

And  her  waist  in  a  wampum  belt? 
With  her  lover,  Hans,  she  fled  from  her  home, 

And  they  gained  the  river's  side, 
Where  the  Annetje  Block  with  her  streamers  set, 

Swung  on  the  restless  tide. 

With  the  southerly  breeze  that  briskly  blew, 

Up  the  East  River  they  bore, 
Past  Gouanes  Kill  and  Point  Bellevue, 

And  the  rocky  Manhattan  shore; 
But  a  squall  swooped  down  on  the  dancing  boat, 

And  the  whirlpool  raged  about; 
You  may  see  the  reef  where  they  met  their  death, 

When  the  Hell  Gate  tide  is  out. 


34 


MAIDEN  LANE 


Louise  Morgan  Sill 

Down  Maiden  Lane,  where  clover  grew, 

Sweet-scented  in  the  early  air, 
Where  sparkling  rills  went  shining  through 

Their  grassy  banks,  so  green,  so  fair, 
Blithe  little  maids  from  Holland  land 

Went  tripping,  laughing  each  to  each, 
To  bathe  the  flax,  or  spread  a  band 

Of  linen  in  the  sun  to  bleach. 

More  than  two  centuries  ago 

They  wore  this  path — a  maiden's  lane — 
Where  now  such  waves  of  commerce  flow 

As  never  dazed  a  burgher's  brain. 
Two  hundred  years  ago  and  more 

Those  thrifty  damsels,  one  by  one, 
With  plump,  round  arms  their  linen  bore 

To  dry  in  Mana-ha-ta's  sun. 

But  now!    Behold  the  altered  view; 

No  tender  sward,  no  bubbling  stream, 
No  laughter, — was  it  really  true, 

Or  but  the  fancy  of  a  dream? 
Were  these  harsh  walls  a  byway  sweet, 

This  floor  of  stone  a  grassy  plain? 
Pray  vanish,  modern  city  street, 

And  let  us  stroll  down  Maiden  Lane. 


35 


THE  STAMP  ACT  IN  NEW  YORK,  1765 


George  Lansing  Raymond 

The  night  before  the  Stamp-Act 

Should  rule  the  colony, 
We  slept  not  much ;  we  melted  lead ; 
We  whetted  steel;  we  plann'd  ahead, 

We  "Sons  of  Liberty." 

Then,  when  the  morn  was  breaking, 

On  every  hill  and  plain, 
In  all  the  towns,  we  toll'd  the  bells, 
That  all  began  with  doleful  knells, 

As  though  for  Freedom  slain. 

Anon,  they  rang  out  madly 

What  might  have  peal'd  to  be 
The  land's  alarm-bell — only  now 
They  peal 'd  to  hail  the  new-born  vow 

Of  men  that  would  be  free. 

New  York  went  wild  to  hear  them. 

Men  flooded  every  way: 
They  left  their  shops ;  they  stopt  their  mills ; 
And  farmers  flock'd  from  all  the  hills, 

And  sailors  from  the  bay. 

36 


The  Stamp  Act  in  New  York 


Now  who  would  buy  a  stamp  here? 

Was  ask'd  in  all  the  ways, 
But  not  a  shop  was  not  shut  to ; 
For  all  had  wiser  work  to  do 

On  this,  our  day  of  days. 

"We  would  not,  and  we  will  not 

Submit, "  said  Isaac  Sears. 
The  governor  said:  "You  fill  the  street, 
But  here  a  fort  and  there  a  fleet 

May  yet  awake  your  fears. " 

Then  from  the  fort  the  cannon 

Were  turn'd  upon  the  town, 
But  "If  you  fire, "  the  people  cried, 
"We  hang  the  governor  here  outside, 

Or  burn  your  quarters  down. " 

At  night,  the  boys  with  torches 

Came  trooping  out  for  sport. 
They  sought  the  house  of  James,  and  took 
The  army  flags  his  fear  forsook, 

And  march 'd  them  round  the  fort. 

The  governor  own'd  his  coaches, 

And  one  a  coach  of  state. 
They  burst  his  barn-door  in  with  cries 
And  dragg'd  them  off  before  his  eyes, 

As  trophies  of  their  hate. 

An  image  of  the  devil, 

And  of  the  governor  too 
They  made,  and  made  them  both  careen, 
While,  side  by  side,  through  Bowling  Green, 

They  wheel'd  them  into  view. 


The  Stamp  Act  in  New  York 


At  last,  of  all  the  coaches 

They  form'd  a  funeral  pyre; 
And,  full  in  face  of  all  the  town, 
Who  only  roar'd  its  roar  to  drown, 

They  set  the  whole  on  fire. 

The  governor  begg'd  the  army, 

The  army  begg'd  the  fleet, 
To  take  the  stamps  and  save  the  fort; 
But  neither  cared  to  brave  the  sport 

Of  those  who  fhTd  the  street. 

The  courage  of  the  courtiers 

Had  bow'd  to  wisdom  higher; 
The  power  of  right  that  ruled  the  street 
Had  overawed  the  fort  and  fleet — 
They  did  not  dare  to  fire. 

So  nothing  now  was  left  them 

Except  to  yield  us  all. 
Our  mayor  took  the  stamps,  at  last, 
And  bore* them  off,  and  lock'd  them  fast 

Within  the  City  Hall. 

And  loud  the  people  shouted ; 

They  felt  that  right  was  done ; 
Cried  "Liberty  and  Property! 
No  stamps  to  curse  the  Colony!" 

And  parted,  one  by  one. 

The  next  day  all  the  papers 
Without  the  stamps  appear'd. 

Men  took  no  notes,  but  trusted  men. 

Our  ships  were  off  to  sea  again ; 
And  none  the  navy  fear'd. 


The  Stamp  Act  in  New  York 


And  none  had  bought  a  stamp  there, 

Or  seal'd  himself  a  slave; 
And  half  of  England,  trust  my  word, 
Were  thrill'd  with  joy,  when  they  had  heard 

How  we  ourselves  could  save. 

At  last  there  came  a  daybreak 

When  all  the  thankful  kneel'd; 
And  bells  were  rung,  and  banners  hung; 
And  England's  weal  was  drunk  and  sung — 

The  Stamp  Act  was  repeal' d. 


WHEN  BROADWAY  WAS  A  COUNTRY  ROAD 


Charles  Coleman  Stoddard 

No  rushing  cars,  nor  tramping  feet 

Disturbed  the  peaceful  summer  days 
That  shone  as  now  upon  the  street 

That  knows  our  busy  noisy  ways. 

And  blushing  girls  and  awkward  jays 
Strolled  slowly  home,  and  cattle  lowed 

As  fell  the  purple  twilight  haze, 
When  Broadway  was  a  country  road. 

No  tailored  dandies,  trim  and  neat; 

No  damsels  of  the  latest  craze 
Of  form  and  fashion ;  no  conceit 

To  catch  the  fancy  or  amaze, 

No  buildings  met  the  skyward  gaze; 
Nor  myriad  lights  that  nightly  glowed 

To  set  the  midnight  hour  ablaze — 
When  Broadway  was  a  country  road. 

Then  shady  lanes  with  blossoms  sweet 
Led  gently  down  to  quiet  bays 

Or  to  the  sheltered,  hedged  retreat 
Some  falling  mansion  now  betrays. 
The  stage-coach  here  no  longer  pays 

Its  daily  call,  nor  farmer's  goad 
40 


When  Broadway  Was  a  Country  Road  41 

Their  oxen,  as  in  olden  days 
When  Broadway  was  a  country  road. 

Little  indeed  to  meet  the  praise 
Of  modern  times  the  picture  showed. 

And  yet  the  fancy  fondly  strays 
To  Broadway  as  a  country  road. 


NATHAN  HALE 


September  22,  1776 

Delivered  before  the  Alumni  of  Columbia  College,  October 

1858 

John  MacMullen,  A.M. 

Come  all  Alumni  gather  round; 

I  tell  of  courage  high ; 
Of  Nathan  Hale,  a  college  boy, 

One  not  afraid  to  die. 
His  father  a  stout  yeoman  was ; 

In  Coventry  his  birth; 
And  never  shone  the  golden  sun 

On  one  of  loftier  worth. 

When  he  entered  the  halls  of  Mother  Yale, 

And  trod  beneath  her  elm, 
He  seemed  some  heaven-sent  Mercury, 

With  winged  feet  and  helm; 
For  he  was  tall,  well-knit  and  strong; 

No  goodlier  youth  was  seen; 
And  in  after  years  men  proudly  showed 

His  leap  on  the  College  Green. 

The  war  cry  to  New  London  came, 
Where  Hale  sat  in  his  school. 


42 


Nathan  Hale 


43 


Then  straightway  rose  the  hero  up ; 

Left  copy-book  and  rule. 
"I've  passed  among  you  pleasant  days; 

But  those  pleasant  days  are  o'er. 
My  country  calls;  I  leave  my  books, 

And  gird  me  up  for  war. " 

Hale  took  the  guise  of  schoolmaster, 

Wandering  in  search  of  work, 
'Neath  plain  brown  clothes  and  broad-brimmed  hat 

His  purposes  must  lurk. 
He  crossed  the  Sound  at  Norwalk 

When  all  was  still  and  dark 
And  safely  trod  on  hostile  ground 

Ere  rising  of  the  lark. 

Through  English,  Hessians,  Waldeckers, 

He  passed  in  safety  on, 
Striving  their  numbers  all  to  note, 

And  all  their  works  to  con. 
From  Brooklyn  he  crossed  over  here 

And  passed  along  our  streets; 
Though  every  soldier  was  his  foe, 

Yet  all  he  calmly  meets. 

'Twas  early  morn,  when  on  the  shore 

At  Huntington  he  stood, 
He  waited  but  the  appointed  boat 

To  bear  him  o'er  the  flood, 
'Twas  close  by  Jesse  Fleet's.    The  leaves 

Were  fluttering  on  the  trees ; 
The  rippling  waves  in  changing  curves, 

Obeyed  the  wandering  breeze. 


Nathan  Hale 


His  task  was  done ;  the  risk  was  run ; 

His  knowledge  all  secure. 
He'd  but  to  cross  the  Sound  again, 

And  all  would  then  be  sure. 
A  boat  comes  round  the  point — Tis  she, 

The  bark  to  bear  him  o'er. 
He  stands  to  wait,  in  careless  ease, 

Her  progress  from  the  shore. 

Too  late!  too  late!  he  sees  his  fault. — 

The  British  uniform 
Is  in  the  boat ;  and  near  must  float 

Some  ship  where  red-coats  swarm. 
He  turns  too  late !  the  sheltering  trees 

He  never  more  may  gain. 
"Stand  or  you  die!"   He  yields  perforce, 

And  in  the  boat  is  ta'en. 

Right  close  they  guarded  him,  and  led, 

To  where,  on  Murray  Hill, 
Sir  William  Howe's  headquarters  were, 

In  Beekman's  mansion  still. 
Its  owner,  a  true  patriot, 

Had  to  Esopus  fled. 
They  seized  his  house ;  his  halls  they  ran< 

To  the  hated  Briton's  tread. 

A  greenhouse  in  the  garden  stood ; 

They  brought  the  captive  there ; 
The  place  was  shorn  of  all  its  flowers, 

The  tiled  floor  was  bare. 
Bound,  but  undaunted,  waiting  doom, 

The  youthful  Captain  stood, 


Nathan  Hale 


Whate'er  he  felt,  his  manly  front 
Betrayed  no  changing  mood. 

Short  was  his  trial,  sharp  his  doom — 

At  daybreak  he  must  die; 
They  lead  him  forth  to  hold  secure 

Till  dawning  tints  the  sky. 
Close  guarded  to  his  prison  cell, 

The  doors  upon  him  close, 
And  he  is  left  to  think  all  night, 

Or  seek  disturbed  repose. 

But  see!  the  first  grey  streaks  of  dawn 

Come  stealing  o'er  the  sky; 
Hale  leaves  his  restless  couch  that  he 

May  dress  himself  to  die. 
They  come — with  calm  he  meets  them, 

And  walks  with  firmest  tread; 
Upright  his  graceful,  manly  form, 

Uplifted  is  his  head. 

In  Chambers  Street  they  halted; 

The  brutal  Cunningham, 
With  negro  Dick,  his  hangman  foul, 

Their  cursed  work  began. 
There  was  a  graveyard  to  the  north, 

And  from  a  branching  tree 
The  fatal  noose  hangs  ready 

That's  to  set  his  spirit  free. 

"My  sole  regret  is  that  I  have 

Only  one  life  to  give.  " 
The  furious  brute  laid  hands  on  him, 

That  he  might  not  longer  live. — 


Nathan  Hale 


We  know  not  where  they  buried  him, 

Belike  beneath  the  tree; 
But  patriot  memories  cluster  there, 

Where'er  the  spot  may  be. 

And  still  when  comes  September, 

The  month  that  saw  his  death, 
And  the  forest  leaves  begin  to  change 

Beneath  the  frost-king's  breath, 
In  cottage  and  in  college  hall, 

Throughout  our  native  land 
Let  each  faithful  heart  recall  thy  part 

Amidst  the  patriot  band. 


NATHAN  HALE 


Francis  Miles  Finch 

To  drum-beat  and  heart-beat, 

A  soldier  marches  by: 
There  is  colour  in  his  cheek, 

There  is  courage  in  his  eye, 
Yet  to  drum-beat  and  heart-beat 

In  a  moment  he  must  die. 

By  starlight  and  moonlight, 
He  seeks  the  Briton's  camp; 

He  hears  the  rustling  flag, 

And  the  armed  sentry's  tramp; 

And  the  starlight  and  moonlight 
His  silent  wanderings  lamp. 

With  slow  tread  and  still  tread, 
He  scans  the  tented  line; 

And  he  counts  the  battery  guns 
By  the  gaunt  and  shadowy  pine; 

And  his  slow  tread  and  still  tread 
Gives  no  warning  sign. 

The  dark  wave,  the  plumed  wave, 

It  meets  his  eager  glance ; 
And  it  sparkles  'neath  the  stars, 
47 


Nathan  Hale 


Like  the  glimmer  of  a  lance — 
A  dark  wave,  a  plumed  wave, 
On  an  emerald  expanse. 

A  sharp  clang,  a  steel  clang, 

And  terror  in  the  sound! 
For  the  sentry,  falcon-eyed, 

In  the  camp  a  spy  hath  found; 
With  a  sharp  clang,  a  steel  clang, 

The  patriot  is  bound. 

With  calm  brow,  steady  brow, 

He  listens  to  his  doom; 
In  his  look  there  is  no  fear, 

Nor  a  shadow-trace  of  gloom ; 
But  with  calm  brow  and  steady  brow 

He  robes  him  for  the  tomb. 

In  the  long  night,  the  still  night, 

He  kneels  upon  the  sod; 
And  the  brutal  guards  withhold 

E'en  the  solemn  Word  of  God! 
In  the  long  night,  the  still  night, 

He  walks  where  Christ  hath  trod. 

'Neath  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn, 

He  dies  upon  the  tree; 
And  he  mourns  that  he  can  lose 

But  one  life  for  Liberty; 
And  in  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn, 

His  spirit-wings  are  free. 

But  his  last  words,  his  message- words, 

They  burn,  lest  friendly  eye 
Should  read  how  proud  and  calm 


Nathan  Hale 


49 


A  patriot  could  die, 
With  his  last  words,  his  dying  words, 
A  soldier's  battle-cry 

From  the  Fame-leaf  and  Angel -leaf, 
From  monument  and  urn, 

The  sad  of  earth,  the  glad  of  heaven, 
His  tragic  fate  shall  learn ; 

And  on  Fame-leaf  and  Angel-leaf 
The  name  of  Hale  shall  burn ! 


BOWLING  GREEN 


Louise  Morgan  Sill 

Where  the  city's  rushing  throng 
Beats  its  burly  way  along 

Whitehall  Street, 
Up  where  giant  buildings  frown 
On  the  pygmy  people,  down 

At  their  feet, 

Lies  a  modest  bit  of  park 
That  the  people  seldom  mark 

In  their  haste, 
As  they  scatter  to  and  fro, 
And  like  winds  of  heaven  go, 

Fury-paced. 

But  within  this  green  enclosed — 
Where  the  burghers,  once  reposed 

At  their  ease, 
Or  at  bowls  displayed  their  skill 
Summer  afternoons  to  kill, 

If  you  please — 

Reigns  some  magic  of  the  past 
That,  amid  the  noisy  blast 
All  around, 
50 


Bowling  Green 


Sets  a  charm  upon  your  ear 
As  you  enter,  and  you  hear 
Not  a  sound; 

Not  a  murmur,  save  the  tone 
Of  a  Dutchman,  or  the  drone 

Of  a  bee ; 
Or  the  laughter  of  a  child 
As  he  scampers  free  and  wild 

On  the  lea. 

You  can  see  the  Maying-time, 
When  the  maidens'  voices  chime 

Joyous  notes; 
When  the  Neltjies  and  the  rest 
Are  arrayed  in  all  their  best 

Petticoats. 

And  they  dance  with  such  a  grace, 
And  they  blush  with  such  a  face — 

Rose-and-cream — 
As  they  curtsey,  sweet  and  shy, 
That  you  wonder  why  you  sigh 

As  you  dream. 

For  they've  vanished  long  ago, 
Burgher,  goede  vrow  and  beau, 

Damsel  fair; 
And  the  smile  that  meets  your  eye, 
And  the  steps  that  patter  by 

Are  but  air. 


Bowling  Green 

Yet,  'tis  said  that  every  night 
When  the  moon  is  shining  bright 

On  the  scene, 
Still  the  Dutchmen's  placid  souls 
Play  their  solemn  game  of  bowls 

On  the  Green. 


THE  CONGRATULATION 


Written  on  occasion  of  the  failure  of  the  great  expectations 
entertained  by  the  Americans  from  the  presence  in  our  waters  of 
D'Estaing's  fleet  during  the  years  1778  and  1779. 

Dr.  Jonathan  Odell 

Joy  to  great  Congress,  joy  an  hundred  fold : 
The  grand  cajolers  are  themselves  cajol'd! 
In  vain  has  Franklin's  artifice  been  tried, 
And  Louis  swell'd  with  treachery  and  pride: 
Who  reigns  supreme  in  heav'n  deception  spurns, 
And  on  the  author's  head  the  mischief  turns. 
What  pains  were  taken  to  procure  D'Estaing! 
His  fleet's  dispersed,  and  Congress  may  go  hang. 

Joy  to  great  Congress,  joy  an  hundred  fold : 
The  grand  cajolers  are  themselves  cajol'd! 
Heav'n's  King  sends  forth  the  hurricane  and  strips 
Of  all  their  glory  the  perfidious  ships. 
His  Ministers  of  Wrath  the  storm  direct; 
Nor  can  the  Prince  of  Air  his  French  protect. 
Saint  George,  Saint  David  show'd  themselves  true 
hearts; 

Saint  Andrew  and  Saint  Patrick  topped  their  parts 
With  right  Eolian  puffs  the  wind  they  blew; 
Crack  went  the  masts;  the  sails  to  shivers  flew. 
Such  honest  Saints  shall  never  be  forgot; 
Saint  Denis  and  Saint  Tammany,  go  rot. 


53 


THE  WALLABOUT  MARTYRS 

In  Brooklyn,  in  an  old  vault,  mark'd  by  no  special  recognition, 
lie  huddled  at  this  moment  the  undoubtedly  authentic  remains 
of  the  stanchest  and  earliest  Revolutionary  patriots  from  the 
British  prison  ships  and  prisons  of  the  times  of  1776-83,  in  and 
around  New  York,  and  from  all  over  Long  Island;  originally 
buried — many  thousands  of  them — in  trenches  in  the  Wallabout 
sands. 

Walt  Whitman 

Greater  than  memory  of  Achilles  or  Ulysses, 
More,  more  by  far  to  thee  than  tomb  of  Alexander, 
Those  cart  loads  of  old  charnel  ashes,  scales  and 

splints  of  mouldy  bones, 
Once  living  men — once  resolute  courage,  aspiration, 

strength, 

The  stepping  stones  to  thee  today  and  here,  Amer- 
ica. 


54 


THE  TOMB  OF  THE  PATRIOTS 

Occasioned  by  the  general  procession  of  many  thousands  of  the 
citizens  of  New  York  on  the  26th  of  May,  1808,  to  inter  the  bones 
and  skeletons  of  American  prisoners  who  perished  in  the  old  Jer- 
sey, and  other  prison  ships,  during  the  Revolutionary  War;  and 
which  were  now  first  discovered  by  the  wasting  of  the  shores 
and  banks  on  Long  Island,  where  they  had  been  left. 

Philip  Freneau 

Britain!  we  cite  you  to  our  bar,  once  more; 
What  but  ambition  urged  you  to  our  shore?— 
To  abridge  our  native  rights,  seven  years  you  strove; 
Seven  years  were  ours  your  arm  of  death  to  prove, 
To  find,  that  conquest  was  your  sovereign  view; 
Your  aims,  to  fetter,  humble,  and  subdue, 
To  seize  a  soil  which  not  your  labour  till'd 
When  the  rude  native  scarcely  we  repell'd. 
When,  with  unbounded  rage,  their  nations  swore 
To  hurl  the  out-law' d  stranger  from  their  shore, 
Or  swell  the  torrent  with  their  thousands  slain. 
No  more  to  approach  them,  or  molest  their  reign. — 

What  did  we  ask? — what  right  but  reason  owns? 
Yet  even  the  mild  petition  met  your  frowns. 
Submission  only  to  a  monarch's  will 
Could  calm  your  rage,  or  bid  your  storm  be  still. 

55 


56 


The  Tomb  of  the  Patriots 


Before  our  eyes  the  angry  shades  appear 
Of  those,  whose  relics  we  this  day  inter  : 
They  live,  they  speak,  reproach  you,  and  complain 
Their  lives  were  shorten' d  by  your  galling  chain: 
They  aim  their  shafts,  directed  to  your  breast, — 
Let  rage,  and  fierce  resentment  tell  the  rest. 

These  coffins,  tokens  of  our  last  regard 
These  mouldering  bones  your  vengeance  might  have 
spared. — 

If  once,  in  life,  they  met  you  on  the  main, 
If  to  your  arms  they  yielded  on  the  plain,— 
Man,  once  a  captive,  all  respect  should  claim 
That  Britain  gave,  before  her  days  of  shame. 
How  changed  their  lot!  in  floating  dungeons  thrown, 
They  sigh'd  unpitied,  and  relieved  by  none: 
In  want  of  all  that  nature's  wants  demand, 
They  met  destruction  from  some  traitor's  hand, 
Who  treated  all  with  death  or  poison  here, 
Or  the  last  groan,  with  ridicule  severe. 

A  sickening  languor  to  the  soul  returns 
And  kindling  passion  at  the  motive  spurns: 
The  murders  here,  did  we  at  length  display 
Would  more  than  paint  an  indian  tyrant's  sway: 
Then  hush  the  theme,  and  to  the  dust  restore 
These,  once  so  wretched  near  Manhattan's  shore. 


THE  PRISON  SHIPS,  1776 


Ode  read  at  the  Dedicatory  exercises  of  the  Prison  Ship  Mar- 
tyrs' Monument  on  Fort  Greene,  Washington  Park,  Brooklyn, 
New  York,  November  14,  1908. 

Thomas  Walsh 

O  martyrdom  of  hope ! — to  lie 
In  youth  and  strength — and  die 
'Mid  rotting  hulks  that  once  by  every  sea 
And  star  swung  carelessly — 
To  die  becalmed  in  war's  black  hell, 
Where  in  the  noon's  wide  blaze  your  hearts  could 
soar 

With  gull  and  eagle  by  each  cherished  shore 
Of  home — where  ye  had  sworn  to  dwell 
The  fathers  of  the  free. 

Blessed  and  radiant  now! — look  down 
In  consecration  of  the  solemn  deed 
Which  here  commemorates  this  iron  breed 
Of  martyrs  nameless  in  the  clay 
As  the  true  heroes  of  our  newer  day — 
World  heroes — patterned  not  on  king  and  demi-god 
Of  charioted  splendor  or  of  crown 
Blood  crusted — but  on  toilers  in  the  sod, 
On  reapers  of  the  sea,  on  lovers  of  mankind, 

57 


58 


The  Prison  Ships 


Whose  bruised  shoulders  bear 
The  lumbering  wain  of  progress — all  who  share 
The  crust  and  sorrows  of  our  mortal  lot — 
Lamps  of  the  soul  The  Christ  hath  left  behind 
To  light  the  path  whereon  He  faltered  not. 

And  ye,  O  sailors  faring  buoyant  forth, 

Bear  ye  the  tidings  of  this  joy-swept  main 

Where  round  the  coasts  of  Celt  or  Dane 

Ye  brave  the  sleet-mouthed  north 

Or  track  the  moon  on  some  Sicilian  wave 

Or  lonely  cape  of  Spain ; 

Take  ye  the  story  of  these  comrades  true 

Whose  prison  hulks  sank  here 

Where  now  such  tides  of  men  are  poured 

As  never  surged  o'er  crag  or  fiord 

To  stay  the  gulls  with  fear — 

Who  yet  such  quest  of  glory  know 

As  never  Argonaut  of  old 

Seeking  the  shores  of  gold — 

As  never  knight  from  wound  and  vigil  pale 

Tracing  o'er  sunset  worlds  his  Holy  Grail. 

And  lo ! — to  all  the  seas  a  pharos  set 

In  sign  memorial !    Through  the  glooms  of  Time 

'Twill  teach  a  sacrifice  of  self  sublime 

O'er  lash  of  storms  as  through  corroding  calms, 

Nor  e'er  alone  shall  shine 

Its  love-bright  parapet ; 

But  every  star  shall  bring  a  golden  alms; — 

The  seething  harbour  line 

Glow  'neath  its  star-fed  hives,  its  swing  and  flare 
Of  Bridges; — while  with  pilgrim  lamps  from  sea 


The  Prison  Ships 


59 


Shall  grope  the  Dreadnought  fleets; — while  endless 
prayer 

Of  dawns  and  sunsets  floods  the  faces  far 
Uplifted,  tear-stained,  to  this  Martyr  shrine — 
Whose  sister  torch  shall  greet  what  Liberty 
Holds  back  to  God, — earth's  brightest  answering 
star. 


SEA-GULLS  OF  MANHATTAN 


Henry  Van  Dyke 

Children  of  the  elemental  mother, 

Born  upon  some  lonely  island  shore 
Where  the  wrinkled  ripples  run  and  whisper, 

Where  the  crested  billows  plunge  and  roar ; 
Long- winged,  tireless  roamers  and  adventurers, 

Fearless  breasters  of  the  wind  and  sea, 
In  the  far-off  solitary  places 

I  have  seen  you  floating  wild  and  free! 

Here  the  high-built  cities  rise  around  you; 

Here  the  cliffs  that  tower  east  and  west, 
Honeycombed  with  human  habitations, 

Have  no  hiding  for  the  sea-bird's  nest: 
Here  the  river  flows  begrimed  and  troubled; 

Here  the  hurrying,  panting  vessels  fume, 
Restless,  up  and  down  the  watery  highway, 

While  a  thousand  chimneys  vomit  gloom. 

Toil  and  tumult,  conflict  and  confusion, 
Clank  and  clamour  of  the  vast  machine 

Human  hands  have  built  for  human  bondage — 
Yet  amid  it  all  you  float  serene; 

Circling,  soaring,  sailing,  swooping  lightly 
Down  to  glean  your  harvest  from  the  wave ; 
60 


Sea-Gulls  of  Manhattan  61 


In  your  heritage  of  air  and  water, 

You  have  kept  the  freedom  Nature  gave. 

Even  so  the  wild-woods  of  Manhattan 

Saw  your  wheeling  flocks  of  white  and  grey; 
Even  so  you  fluttered,  followed,  floated, 

Round  the  Half -Moon  creeping  up  the  bay; 
Even  so  your  voices  creaked  and  chattered, 

Laughing  shrilly  o'er  the  tidal  rips, 
While  your  black  and  beady  eyes  were  glistening 

Round  the  sullen  British  prison-ships. 

Children  of  the  elemental  mother, 

Fearless  floaters  'mid  the  double  blue, 
From  the  crowded  boats  that  cross  the  ferries 

Many  a  longing  heart  goes  out  to  you. 
Though  the  cities  climb  and  close  around  us, 

Something  tells  us  that  our  souls  are  free, 
While  the  sea-gulls  fly  above  the  harbour, 

While  the  river  flows  to  meet  the  sea ! 


SONG  FOR  A  VENISON   DINNER  AT  MR. 
BUNYAN'S 


New  York,  1781 

Joseph  Stansbury 

Friends,  push  'round  the  bottle,  and  let  us  be  drink- 
ing, 

While  Washington  up  in  his  mountains  is  slinking. 
Good  faith,  if  he's  wise  he'll  not  leave  them  behind 
him, 

For  he  knows  he's  safe  nowhere  where  Britons  can 
find  him. 

When  he  and  Fayette  talk  of  taking  this  city, 
Their  vaunting  moves  only  our  mirth  and  our  pity. 

But  though  near  our  lines  they're  too  cautious  to 
tarty, 

What  courage  they  shew  when  a  hen-roost  they 
harry ! 

Who  can  wonder  that  Poultry  and  Oxen  and  Swine 
Seek  shelter  in  York  from  such  Valour  divine ; 
While  Washington's  jaws  and  the  Frenchman's  are 
aching 

The  spoil  they  have  lost  to  be  boiling  and  baking. 

Let  Clinton  and  Arnold  bring  both  to  subjection, 
And  send  us  more  geese  here  to  seek  our  Protection. 

62 


Song  for  a  Venison  Dinner 


63 


Their  flesh  and  their  feathers  shall  meet  a  kind  greet- 
ing: 

A  fat  Rebel  Turkey  is  excellent  eating: 

A  Lamb  fat  as  butter,  and  white  as  a  Chicken — 

Those  sorts  of  tame  Rebels  are  excellent  picking. 

Today  a  wild  Rebel  has  smoaked  on  the  Table : 
You've  cut  him  and  slic'd  him  as  long  as  you're 
able. 

He  bounded  like  Congo,  and  bade  you  defiance: 
And  plac'd  on  his  running  his  greatest  reliance. 
But  Fate  overtook  him  and  brought  him  before  ye, 
To  shew  how  Rebellion  will  wind  up  her  story. 

Then  cheer  up,  my  lads,  if  the  Prospect  grows  rougher, 
Remember  from  whence,  and  for  whom  'tis  ye  suffer: 
From  men  whom  mild  Laws,  and  too  happy  condi- 
tion, 

Have  puffed  up  with  Pride  and  inflamed  with  sedi- 
tion. 

For  George,  whose  reluctance  to  punish  Offenders 
Has  strengthened  the  hands  of  these  upstart  Pre- 
tenders. 


EVACUATION  OF  NEW  YORK  BY  THE 
BRITISH,  1783 


The  following  song  was  composed  and  sung  on  the  ever-memor- 
able 25th  of  November,  1783,  when  the  conquered  Britons  evacu- 
ated the  City  of  New  York,  and  thereby  finally  left  the  thirteen 
United  States  in  possession  of  that  freedom,  prosperity,  and 
independence  for  which  they  had  so  long  and  so  successfully 
contended. 

They  come! — they  come! — the  heroes  come 
With  sounding  fife,  with  thundering  drum ; 
Their  ranks  advance  in  bright  array, — 
The  heroes  of  America ! 

He  comes! — 'tis  mighty  Washington, 
(Words  fail  to  tell  all  he  has  done,) 
Our  hero,  guardian,  father,  friend! 
His  fame  can  never,  never  end . 

He  comes ! — he  comes ! — our  Clinton  comes ! 
Justice  her  ancient  seat  resumes : 
From  shore  to  shore  let  shouts  resound, 
For  Justice  comes,  with  Freedom  crown 'd. 

She  comes! — the  angelic  virgin — Peace, 
And  bids  stern  War  his  horrors  cease ; 
Oh!  blooming  virgin  with  us  stay, 
And  bless,  oh !  bless  America ! 


64 


THE  BALL,  1789 


H.  C.  BUNNER 

The  Town  is  at  the  Ball  to-night, 

The  Town  is  at  the  Ball; 
From  the  Battery  to  Hickory  Lane 

The  Beaux  come  one  and  all. 
The  French  folk  up  along  the  Sound 

Took  carriage  for  the  city, 
And  Madge  the  Belle,  from  New  Rochelle, 

Will  stop  with  Lady  Kitty. 

And  if  the  Beaux  could  have  their  way 

Their  choice  would  be,  in  Brief, 
That  Madge  the  Bell  should  lead  the  Ball 

And  open  with  The  Chief. 
Though  Lady  Kitty's  high  estate 

May  give  this  choice  some  reason, 
By  Right  Divine  Madge  holds  the  place — 

The  Toast  of  all  the  Season. 

Behold  her  as  she  trips  the  floor 

By  Lady  Kitty's  side — 
How  low  bows  Merit  at  her  glance, 

And  Valour,  true  and  tried ! 
Each  hand  that  late  the  sword-hilt  grasped 

Would  fain  her  hand  be  pressing — 


The  Ball 


But,  ah!  fair  Madge,  who'll  wear  your  badge 
Is  past  all  wooer's  guessing. 

The  Colonel  bows  his  powdered  head 

Well-nigh  unto  her  feet ; 
Fame's  Trump  rings  dull  unto  his  ears, 

That  wait  her  Accents  sweet. 
The  young  Leftenant,  Trig  and  Trim, 

Who  lately  won  his  spurs, 
Casts  love-sick  glances  in  her  way, 

And  wins  no  glance  of  hers. 

Before  her  bows  the  Admiral, 

Whose  head  was  never  bowed 
Before  the  foamy-crested  wave 

That  wet  the  straining  shroud. 
And  all  his  pretty  midshipmen, 

They  stand  there  in  a  line, 
Saluting  this  Fair  Craft  that  sails 

With  no  surrendering  sign. 

And  so  she  trips  across  the  floor 

On  Lady  Kitty's  arm, 
And  grizzled  pates  and  frizzled  pates 

All  bow  before  her  charm. 
And  she  will  dance  the  minuet, 

A-facing  Lady  Kitty, 
Nor  miss  The  Chief — she  hath,  in  brief, 

Her  choice  of  all  the  city. 

But  in  the  minuet  a  hand 

Shall  touch  her  finger-tips, 
And  almost  to  a  Kiss  shall  turn 

The  Smile  upon  her  lips; 


The  Ball 


And  he  is  but  a  midship  boy, 

And  she  is  Madge  the  Belle; 
But  never  to  Chief  nor  to  Admiral 

Such  a  tale  her  lips  shall  tell. 

The  Town  is  at  the  Ball  to-night, 

The  Town  is  at  the  Ball, 
And  the  Town  shall  talk  as  never  before 

Ere  another  night  shall  fall ; 
And  men  shall  rave  in  Rector  street, 

And  men  shall  swear  in  Pine, 
And  hearts  shall  break  for  Madge's  sake 

From  Bay  to  City  Line. 

And  Lady  Kit  shall  wring  her  hands, 

And  write  the  tale  to  tell 
(To  that  much  dreaded  Maiden  Aunt 

Who  lives  at  New  Rochelle) 
All  of  a  gallant  Midshipman 

Who  wooed  in  April  weather 
The  Fairest  of  All  at  the  Chieftain's  Ball— 

And  they  ran  away  together. 


THE  VOW  OF  WASHINGTON 


New  York,  April  30,  1789 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier 

O  City  sitting  by  the  Sea! 

How  proud  the  day  that  dawned  on  thee, 
When  the  new  era,  long  desired,  began, 
And,  in  its  need,  the  nation  found  the  man ! 

One  thought  the  cannon  salvos  spoke, 
The  resonant  bell-towers'  vibrant  stroke, 
The  voiceful  streets,  the  plaudit-echoing  halls, 
And  prayer  and  hymn  borne  heavenward  from  St. 
Paul's! 

How  felt  the  land  in  every  part 

The  strong  throb  of  a  nation's  heart, 
As  its  great  leader  gave,  with  reverent  awe, 
His  pledge  to  Union,  Liberty,  and  Law! 

And  still  we  trust  the  years  to  be 

Shall  prove  his  hope  was  destiny, 
Leaving  our  flag,  with  all  its  added  stars, 
Unrent  by  faction  and  unstained  by  wars. 

Lo !  where  with  patient  toil  he  nursed 
And  trained  the  new- set  plant  at  first, 
The  widening  branches  of  a  stately  tree 
Stretch  from  the  sunrise  to  the  sunset  sea. 


68 


STANZAS 


occasioned  by  lord  bellamont's,  lady  hay's, 
and  other  skeletons  being  dug  up  in  fort 
george,  n.  y.,  i79o 

Philip  Freneau 

To  sleep  in  peace  when  life  is  fled 
Where  shall  our  mouldering  bones  be  laid — 
What  care  can  shun — (I  ask  with  tears) 
The  shovels  of  succeeding  years ! 

Alas!    What  griefs  must  man  endure! 
Not  even  in  forts  he  rests  secure: — 
Time  dims  the  splendours  of  a  crown, 
And  brings  the  loftiest  rampart  down. 

Those  teeth,  dear  girls — so  much  your  care — 
(With  which  no  ivory  can  compare) 
Like  these  (that  once  were  Lady  Hay's) 
May  serve  the  belles  of  future  days. 

The  breath  once  gone  no  art  recalls! 
Away  we  haste  to  vaulted  walls : 
Some  future  whim  inverts  the  plain, 
And  stars  behold  our  bones  again. 


69 


ON  THE  DEMOLITION  OF  FORT  GEORGE, 

1790 


Philip  Freneau 

As  giants  once,  in  hopes  to  rise, 
Heaped  up  their  mountains  to  the  skies ; 
With  Pelion  piled  on  Ossa,  strove 
To  reach  the  eternal  throne  of  Jove ; 

So  here  the  hands  of  ancient  days 

Their  fortress  from  the  earth  did  raise, 

On  whose  proud  heights,  proud  man  to  please, 

They  mounted  guns  and  planted  trees. 

Those  trees  to  lofty  stature  grown — 
All  is  not  right! — they  must  come  down, 
Nor  longer  waste  their  wonted  shade 
Where  Colden  slept,  or  Tryon  strayed. 

Where  Dutchmen  once,  in  ages  past, 
Huge  walls  and  ramparts  round  them  cast 
New  fabrics  raised,  on  new  design, 
Gay  streets  and  palaces  shall  shine. 

Another  George  shall  here  reside, 
While  Hudson's  bold,  unfettered  tide 
Well  pleased  to  see  his  chief  so  nigh, 
With  livelier  aspect  passes  by. 

70 


The  Demolition  of  Fort  George 


Along  his  margin,  fresh  and  clean, 
Ere  long  shall  belles  and  beaux  be  seen, 
Through  moon-light  shades,  delighted,  stray, 
To  view  the  islands  and  the  bay. 

To  barren  hills  far  southward  shoved, 

These  noisy  guns  shall  be  removed, 

No  longer  here  a  vain  expense, 

Where  time  has  proved  them  no  defense. — 

Advance,  bright  days!  make  haste  to  crown 
With  such  fair  scenes  this  honoured  town, — 
Freedom  shall  find  her  charter  clear, 
And  plant  her  seat  of  commerce  here. 


THE  SIEUR  DE  ROCHEFONTAINE 


St.  Paul's  Churchyard 

Clinton  Scollard 

Picardy,  Provence,  Touraine — 
Never  the  fair  home  land  again, 
For  the  Sieur  de  Rochefontaine! 

Never  to  lie  among  his  own 

With  the  soft  south  breezes  o'er  him  blown 

Where  his  stately  noble  name  is  known ! 

But  ever  and  evermore  to  rest, 

With  the  alien  marble  above  his  breast, 

In  the  clime  of  his  youthful  soldier  quest. 

In  the  tyrannous  time  of  war  and  woe, 
The  ancient  foe  of  his  folk  our  foe, 
Hither  he  came  with  Rochambeau. 

Lace  and  ruffle  and  epaulet, 
Grace  and  a  courtier  bearing,  yet 
A  soul  as  valiant  as  Lafayette. 

A  valiant  soul  that  burned  to  be 
In  the  fore  of  the  fight  for  liberty 
With  the  dauntless  men  who  would  fain  be  free. 
72 


The  Sieur  de  Rochefontaine 

Just  another  who  caught  the  gleam 

Of  the  sun  of  Freedom's  rising  beam, 

Who  saw  the  vision,  who  dreamed  the  dream. 

Daily  Broadway's  clamours  and  calls 
Sweep  by  the  chapel  of  old  St.  Paul's, 
Its  levelled  graves  and  its  ivied  walls. 

Here  he  sleeps ;  may  his  slumbers  be 

Sweet  with  the  great  felicity 

That  waits,  'tis  said,  beyond  Death's  dark  sea. 

Never  the  fair  home  land ! — and  still 

What  matters  it  for  a  noble  will 

That  smites  for  right,  'gainst  a  giant  ill? 

Ours  the  freedom  he  helped  to  gain ; 
So  a  plot  of  our  free  domaine 
For  the  Sieur  de  Rochefontaine. 


OLD  ST.  PAUL'S 


Arthur  Upson 

Park  Row  and  Broadway — rush  and  din, 
Turmoil  of  men  in  their  strong,  brief  years, 

Conquest,  honour,  failure  and  sin! — 

Rest  for  a  moment  the  eyes  and  the  ears ; 

Step  through  this  gate  for  a  while  with  me 

Where  struggles  pause,  and  thought  is  free. 

Look  at  the  words  on  this  little  stone 

Under  the  trees  of  old  St.  Paul's. 
Ninety  summers  have  flowered  and  flown, 

Round  these  ivied  Georgian  walls, 
Since  they  cut  in  the  headstone  grey 
The  name  of  "Antipass  Hathaway." 

Only  fourteen !    Boy-gladness,  his, 

Touched — would  you  say? — by  the  lips  of  joy 
Into  eternal  youthfulness — 

Spirit  abiding  forever  boy! 
"March  29th, " — so  they  brought  him  here 
In  the  very  bud  of  the  welling  year. 

Across  the  walk,  quaint-carven  French, 

Line  after  line  in  martial  row, 
Hinting  at  bivouac,  storm,  and  trench 
74 


Old  St.  Paul's 


75 


Under  the  Comte  de  Rochambeau: 
Valiant  indeed,  from  far  Champagne 
Adventured  the  "Sieur  de  Rochefontaine. " 

Follow  me  over  this  stretch  of  sod ; 

Mark  the  shaft  with  its  moral  urn; 
There,  where  the  red  rose-bushes  bud, 

A  few  spent  petals,  you  notice,  burn 
Against  the  letters  chiselled  plain : 
"Of  the  Theatre  Royal,  Drury  Lane." 

And  a  name  now  vague  to  you  and  me, 
An  actor  renowned  in  his  day,  forsooth; 

See  how  they  loved  his  memory : 

"Repaired  by"  .  .  .   "Sothern,"   "Kean,"  and 
"Booth," 

"And  by  The  Players.  " — Such  fame's  enough! 
"Dreams"  made  his  life:  We  are  all  "such  stuff!" 

Oh,  but  the  schoolboy  rolling  hoops 

Over  the  grasses  of  Bowling  Green, 
And  the  brave  young  captain  with  his  troops 

Charging  into  the  battle-scene, 
And  the  actor  accomplished,  praised  by  all — 
Who  gathered  them  here  'neath  the  churchyard  wall? 


NABBY,  THE  NEW  YORK  HOUSEKEEPER 


To  Nanny,  her  Friend  in  Philadelphia,  after  the 
Departure  of  Congress  from  New  York, 
1790 

Philip  Freneau 

Well,  Nanny,  I  am  sorry  to  find,  since  you  writ 
us, 

The  Congress  at  last  has  determined  to  quit  us; 
You  now  may  begin  with  your  dish-clouts  and  brooms, 
To  be  scouring  your  knockers  and  scrubbing  your 
rooms ; 

As  for  us,  my  dear  Nanny,  we're  much  in  a  pet, 
And  hundreds  of  houses  will  be  to  be  let; 
Our  streets,  that  were  just  in  a  way  to  look  clever, 
Will  now  be  neglected  and  nasty  as  ever; 
Again  we  must  fret  at  the  Dutchified  gutters 
And  pebble-stone  pavements  that  wear  out  our 
trotters. 

My  master  looks  dull,  and  his  spirits  are  sinking, 
From  morning  to  night  he  is  smoking  and  thinking, 
Laments  the  expense  of  destroying  the  fort, 
And  says,  your  great  people  are  all  of  a  sort — 
He  hopes  and  prays  they  may  die  in  a  stall 
If  they  leave  us  in  debt — for  Federal  Hall — 
And  Strap  has  declared,  he  has  so  much  regards, 

76 


Nabby,  the  New  York  Housekeeper  77 

He  will  go,  if  they  go,  for  the  sake  of  their  beards. 
Miss  Letty,  poor  lady,  is  so  in  the  pouts, 
She  values  no  longer  our  dances  and  routs, 
And  sits  in  a  corner,  dejected  and  pale, 
As  dull  as  a  cat,  and  as  lean  as  a  rail! — 
Poor  thing,  I'm  certain  she's  in  a  decay, 
And  all — because  Congress  resolve — not  to  stay! 
This  Congress  unsettled  is,  sure,  a  sad  thing, 
Seven  years,  my  dear  Nanny,  they've  been  on  the 
wing; 

My  master  would  rather  saw  timber,  or  dig, 
Than  see  them  removing  to  Conegocheague, 
Where  the  houses  and  kitchens  are  yet  to  be  framed, 
The  trees  to  be  felled,  and  the  streets  to  be  named; 
Of  the  two  we  had  rather  your  town  should  receive 
'em — 

So  here,  my  dear  Nanny,  in  haste  I  must  leave  'em, 

I'm  a  dunce  at  inditing — and  as  I'm  a  sinner, 

The  beefe  is  half  raw — and  the  bell  rings  for  dinner! 


COLUMBIA  COLLEGE,  1796 


"Antiquam  exquisite  matrem. " 

Josiah  Shippey,  A.B. 

Columbia  College!    Alma  Mater!  well 
Do  I  remember,  and  the  time  could  tell, 
When  first  escaped  from  pedagogic  rule, 
To  thee  I  came  fresh  from  a  grammar  school 
From  five  long  years  well  stored,  at  all  events, 
With  English,  Greek,  and  Latin  rudiments. 
And  how  I  profited  thy  books  can  show, 
Placed  number  four  with  twenty-eight  below. 
What  change  to  freedom  from  tyrannic  sway! 
No  time  can  chase  the  pleasing  thought  away. 
No  more  our  minds  with  six  tail'd  strap  appall'd, 
Blockheads  no  more,  but  generosi  call'd. 
And  then,  at  home,  our  studies  to  pursue, 
'Twas  charming  sure,  for  it  was  something  new! 
And  now  thou  view'st  us  scattered  o'er  thy  green 
Here  are  the  gay,  and  there  the  thoughtful  seen. 
'Neath  spreading  trees  we  either  stand  or  sit, 
And  on  each  other  exercise  our  wit ; 
Or  some  are  conning  o'er  the  task  assign'd, 
To  keep  it  fresh,  when  call'd  for  in  their  mind. 
While  some  their  fellow  on  swift  foot  pursue, 
With  noise  and  shouting  make  a  vast  ado. 

78 


Columbia  College 


79 


But  hark !  the  lecture  bell !  when  all  at  once 
Rush  up  the  stoop,  the  scholar  and  the  dunce, 
Enter  the  room,  in  silence  take  our  seats, 
Then  each  vicissim,  the  word  "Here"  repeats; 
The  roll  is  call'd,  the  absentees  are  fined, 
Lecture  commences,  all  composed  each  mind; 
Our  every  eye  on  the  professor  darts, 
Each  ear  drinks  in  the  learning  he  imparts. 
But  some  distrustful  of  their  mem'ry  power, 
On  paper  pen  the  teaching  of  the  hour. 
The  lecture  ended,  all  rush  down  the  stairs, 
And  each  to  his  own  dwelling  place  repairs. 
Morning  and  evening  found  the  students  all, 
For  prayers  assembled,  in  the  common  hall. 
Our  good  old  Pres.  in  pulpit  mounted  high, 
With  specks  on  nose,  and  on  his  book  each  eye, 
He  reads,  while  he  a  cheerful  aspect  wears, 
In  solemn  tones  Episcopalian  pray'rs. 
On  the  concluding  day  of  ev'ry  week, 
Some  compositions  bring,  some  pieces  speak. 
Our  intermediate  studies  to  repeat, 
To  some,  no  doubt,  would  prove  a  grateful  treat. 
But  to  remind  thee  of  some  things  were  vain, 
So  oft  transacted  o'er  and  o'er  again; 
From  time  almost  a  century  ago, 
Thou  know'st  them  all,  and  part  of  them  I  know. 
Oh  happy  College  hours!  though  now  ye  seem 
As  but  the  remnant  of  a  f ev'rish  dream ; 
So  many  sorrows,  joys  and  griefs  and  fears, 
Have  filled  the  lapse  of  nearly  fifty  years : 

But  let  me  mention  first  thy  gala  day, 

When  all  thy  train  came  marching  down  Broadway, 


8o 


Columbia  College 


It  was  a  show  not  framed  for  war  or  fight, 
It  peaceful  was,  a  real  classic  sight. 
Freshmen  and  Sophs,  Juniors  and  Seniors  abreast, 
Pres.,  and  Professors,  Janitor,  full  dress'd, 
In  long  and  flowing  gowns  of  sable  hue, 
They  look'd  like  Preachers  to  the  admiring  view! 
Then  there  arrived,  into  St.  Paul's  they  press'd, 
And  I,  thy  joyous  son,  among  the  rest; 
Then  up  the  aisles  we  pass'd  with  silent  feet, 
And  each  located  in  his  proper  seat. 
Fill'd  was  the  House  of  God,  below,  above 
Music — and  beauty,  beaming  looks  of  love. 
The  music  still'd,  and  now  commence  by  sign, 
Those  acts  in  which  each  speaker  tries  to  shine; 
Speeches  in  English,  some  in  Latin  too, 
Salute,  farewell,  sparkling  with  wit,  span  new. 
The  speaking  o'er,  th'  assembly  wait  to  see, 
Each  graduate  take  his  separate  degree; 
Conferr'd  by  Pres.  in  Latin  on  the  whole, 
A.B.  or  A.M.  with  a  parchment  roll. 
Pray'rs  ended,  now  th'  assembly  all  retire 
To  censure  some,  while  some  applaud,  admire. 
Among  the  A.B.'s  ranks  thy  humble  son; 
Mother,  these  acts  in  ninety-six  were  done! 


AN  EVENING  WALK 


Clinton  Scollard 

Beyond  the  clash  and  clang  of  cars, 

The  clamorous  rush  of  trade, 
One  night  at  earliest  peer  of  stars, 

Apart  alone  I  strayed. 

Crossing  a  little  square  where  eve 

Descended,  pensive-eyed, 
Lo,  a  soft  touch  upon  my  sleeve, — 

A  slim  form  at  my  side! 

He  bowed  with  old-time  courtesy, 

And  words  urbane  on  lip, 
Craving,  in  gracious  wise,  of  me 

A  twilight  comradeship. 

His  hat  was  strange;  his  coat  was  strange; 

His  mien  had  subtle  grace; 
Emotions  swept  in  restless  change 

Across  his  shadowed  face. 

He  dwelt  upon  the  lapse  of  years; 

His  voice,  smooth-toned  and  low, 
Compassed  the  ecstasies  and  tears 

Of  those  dead  long  ago. 

81 


An  Evening  Walk 


His  speech  with  anecdote  was  fraught 
Of  bygone  beau  and  dame, 

And  evermore  the  sound  I  caught 
Of  Blennerhasset's  name. 

At  length  I  shrank  as  though  a-cold ; 

Methought  I  heard  a  moan, 
And  when  I  turned  my  eyes,  behold, 

I  was  once  more  alone ! 

My  questioning  heart  within  my  side 
Gave  sudden  startled  stir; — 

I  had  companioned,  stride  for  stride, 
The  wraith  of  Aaron  Burr! 


ON  THE  CITY  ENCROACHMENTS  ON  THE 
RIVER  HUDSON,  1800 


Philip  Freneau 

Where  Hudson,  once,  in  all  his  pride 

In  surges  burst  upon  the  shore 
They  plant  amidst  his  flowing  tide 
Moles  to  defy  his  loudest  roar; 

And  lofty  mansions  grow  where  late 
Half  Europe  might  discharge  her  freight. 

From  northern  lakes  and  wastes  of  snow 

The  river  takes  a  distant  rise, 
Now  marches  swift,  now  marches  slow, 
And  now  adown  some  rapid  flies 

Till  join'd  the  Mohawk,  in  their  course 
They  travel  with  united  force. 

But  cease,  nor  with  too  daring  aim 
Encroach  upon  this  giant  flood ; 
No  rights  reserved  by  nature,  claim, 
Nor  on  his  ancient  bed  intrude : — 
The  river  may  in  rage  awake 
And  time  restore  him  all  you  take. 


S3 


THE  OLD  BREVOORT  FARM 


A.  D.  1800 

Gideon  J.  Tucker 

A  snug  little  farm  was  the  Old  Brevoort, 
Where  cabbages  grew  of  the  choicest  sort ; 
Full-headed  and  generous,  ample  and  fat, 
In  a  queenly  way  on  their  stems  they  sat ; 
And  there  was  boast  of  their  genuine  breed, 
For  from  Old  Utrecht  had  come  their  seed. 

These  cabbages,  made  into  sauerkraut, 
Were  the  pride  of  the  country  round  about, 
And  their  flavour  was  praised  at  each  farmer  feast, 
Among  the  Stuyvesants,  far  to  the  East, 
Delanceys,  that  in  the  South  meadows  lay, 
And  Strykers,  perched  up  at  Stryker's  Bay. 

The  Brevoorts  had  lived,  as  the  record  appears, 
On  the  farm  for  almost  a  hundred  years. 
From  Brevoort  in  Holland  at  first  they  came, 
From  that  parent  village  they  took  their  name ; 
Whence  the  head  of  the  family — his  name  was  Rip — 
To  New  Netherlands  came  in  an  Amsterdam  ship. 

The  farm  itself  was  by  no  means  great 
Alongside  the  Stuyvesants'  splendid  estate, 

84 


The  Old  Brevoort  Farm 


But  its  pumpkins  were  golden,  its  apples  round, 
And  buckwheat  grew  on  its  upland  ground; 
For  a  rule  of  diet  the  family  had — 
To  eat  buckwheat  cakes  from  green-corn  to  shad. 

Some  mulberries,  quinces  and  Dordrecht  pears 
Grew  where  Grace  Church  its  new  steeple  rears; 
Some  creeping  grape  vines  on  trellis  had  run 
Where  beckons  the  statue  of  Washington; 
On  the  spot  where  Brevoort  House  proudly  towers 
Were  clumps  of  orange-hued  bloempje  flowers. 

The  homestead  stood  at  the  end  of  the  lands 
Where  Grace  Memorial  House  now  stands; 
In  its  garden,  Dutch  tulips  of  every  shade, 
Their  beautiful  form  and  colour  displayed; 
A  low-roofed  and  unpretentious  abode, 
The  homestead  confronted  a  dusty  road. 

A  merry  old  Dutchman  was  Uncle  Brevoort, 

Who  had  not  lived  eighty  odd  years  for  naught; 

With  abundant  waist  and  laughing  blue  eye, 

And  nose  of  a  colour  a  trifle  high. 

A  gouty  foot,  and  long  silvery  hair, 

And  a  forehead  free  as  a  child's  from  care. 

You  saw,  just  through  his  half-opened  door, 
The  well-scoured  planks  of  a  sanded  floor; 
And  within  the  cupboard  was  ranged  on  a  shelf 
Old-fashioned  crockery  brought  from  Delft. 
The  roof  o'er  his  porch  for  shade  was  a  boon 
In  the  heat  of  a  summer  afternoon. 

In  front  of  the  spot  where  his  tulips  grew 
Ran  the  road  now  known  as  Fourth  Avenue; 


86  The  Old  Brevoort  Farm 


Thence  a  lane  to  East  River,  through  fields  of  wheat — 

It  now  goes  by  the  name  of  Eleventh  Street. 

And  as  the  old  gentleman  sat  in  his  porch 

He  looked  down  the  lane  to  the  Bouwerie  Church. 

To  him,  thus  enjoying  his  leisure  and  cheer, 
One  fine  afternoon,  some  surveyors  drew  near; 
He  offered  a  glass  of  old  Holland  schnapps, 
They  accepted  with  thanks,  but  produced  him  some 
maps, 

Which  showed  that  a  project  was  well  under  way 
To  open  Eleventh  Street  through,  to  Broadway. 

The  red  lines  and  blue  they  duly  explained, 
The  land  this  one  owned,  the  bounds  that  one  claimed ; 
An  assessment  put  here  and  there  an  award, 
To  run  curb  and  gutter  through  garden  and  sward. 
He  listened  in  patience  as  long  as  he  could, 
And  then  he  remarked,  "He'd  be  blanked  if  they 
should!" 

He  fought  all  their  maps,  and  he  fought  their  re- 
ports, 

Corporations,  surveyors,  commissioners,  courts; 
He  hired  his  lawyers,  well  learned  in  the  law; 
The  plans  and  the  projects  to  fragments  they  tore. 
But  Uncle  Brevoort,  ere  the  law  suit,  expires, 
And  calmly  he  sleeps  at  St.  Mark's  with  his  sires. 

The  city  abandoned  the  contest  at  last; 
He  knew  not  his  triumph,  his  struggle  was  past; 
His  cabbage  plot's  built  on,  his  tulips  are  gone, 
Where  his  old  homestead  stood  is  a  palace  of  stone. 
But  this  of  the  old  Dutchman's  pluck  we  can  say — 
Eleventh  Street's  not  opened  through,  to  this  day! 


AN  IVORY  MINIATURE 


Helen  Gray  Cone 

When  State  Street  homes  were  stately  still, 
When  out  of  town  was  Murray  Hill, 

In  late  deceased  "old  times" 
Of  vast,  embowering  bonnet  shapes 
And  creamy-crinkled  Canton  crapes 

And  florid  annual-rhymes, 

He  owned  a  small  suburban  seat 
Where  now  you  see  a  modern  street, 

A  monochrome  of  brown : 
The  sad  "brown  brown"  of  Dante's  dreams, 
A  twilight  turned  to  stone  that  seems 

To  weight  our  city  down. 

Through  leafy  chestnuts  whitely  showed 
The  pillared  front  of  his  abode: 

A  garden  girt  it  'round, 
Where  pungent  box  did  trim  enclose 
The  marigold  and  cabbage  rose, 

And  "pi'ny"  heavy-crowned. 

Yea,  whatso  sweets  the  changing  years, 
He  most  affected.    Gone!  but  here's 
His  face  who  loved  them  so 
87 


An  Ivory  Miniature 

Old  eyes  like  sherry,  warm  and  mild ; 
A  clear-hued  cheek  as  cheek  of  child; 
Sleek  head,  a  sphere  of  snow. 

His  mouth  was  pious,  and  his  nose 
Patrician ;  with  which  mould  there  goes 

A  disaffected  view. 
In  those  sublime,  be-oratored, 
Spread-eagle  days,  his  soul  deplored 

So  much  red-white-and-blue ! 

In  umber  ink,  with  S's  long, 

He  left  behind  him  censure  strong, 

In  stiff  est  phrases  clothed! 
But  time — a  pleasant  jest  enough ! — 
Has  turned  the  tory  leaves  to  buff, 

The  liberal  hue  he  loathed! 

Of  many  a  gentle  deed  he  made 
Brief  simple  record.    Never  fade 

Those  everlasting  flowers 
That  spring  up  wild  in  good  men's  walks; 
Opinions  wither  on  their  stalks, 

And  sere  grow  Fashion's  bowers. 

Erect,  befrilled,  in  neckcloth  tall, 
His  semblance  sits,  removed  from  all 

Our  needs  and  noises  new ; 
Released  from  all  the  rent  we  pay 
As  tenants  of  the  large  To-day, 

Cool,  in  a  background  blue. 

And  he  beneath  a  cherub  chipped 
Plump,  squamous-pinioned,  pouting-lipped, 
Sleeps  calm  where  Trinity 


An  Ivory  Miniature 

Points  fingers  dark  to  clouds  that  fleet; 
A  warning,  seen  from  surging  street, 
A  welcome  seen  from  sea. 

There  fall,  ghost  glorified  of  tears 
Shed  for  the  dead  in  buried  years, 

The  silver  notes  of  chimes ; 
And  there,  with  not  unreverent  hand 
Though  light,  I  lay  this  "  green  e  garland," 

This  woven  wreath  of  rhymes. 


THE  FASHIONS,  1806 


L.  Beach 

A  lad  came  down  from  our  town, 

To  view  this  woundy  city, 
And  take  a  peep  at  all  the  tips, 
Who  look  so  mighty  pretty. 
Yankee  Doodle,  mind  the  dance, 

Step  it  off  so  neatly, 
To  the  pretty  girls  advance, 
Smack  their  lippees  sweetly. 

He  saw  the  pretty  girls,  I  vags, 

As  Broadway  street  he  stood  in, 
Tied  up  as  tight  in  cotton  bags 
As  mother's  Indian  pudding. 
Yankee  Doodle — music  strike, 

Dancing  now  our  trade  is; 
Did  you  ever  see  the  like, 
Pudding-bags  on  ladies. 

He  saw  the  pretty  gentlemen, 

You'll  see  them  every  street  in, 
With  little  jackets  o'er  their  coats, 
And  leather  bags  their  feet  in. 
Yankee  Doodle — pantaloons 

Grow  so  high  before,  sir, 
They've  quarrel 'd  with  the  waistcoats  all, 
And  turn'd  them  out  of  door,  sir. 


90 


AT  TRINITY 


Andrew  E.  Watrous 

Where  Wall  Street's  head  from  full  Broadway 
Takes  portions  of  the  surge  and  spray, 
By  silent  night,  and  roaring  day, 
Its  graves  it  guardeth. 

The  jetsam  of  the  swollen  stream, 
Profounder  far  their  peace  doth  seem, 
For  tossing  drift  that  from  their  dream, 
The  still  close  wardeth. 

In  days  when  Bleecker  Street  was  rus, 
And  Murray  Hill  as  is  to  us 
Champlain,  Au  Sable;  when  this  fuss 
And  fret  were  quiet ; 

When  ladies  yet  might  think  it  queer 
To  date  in  18 — ;  when  all  here, 
In  brief,  was  up-town — in  the  year, 
Say  '08, — I  spy  it. 

Perchance,  in  there  among  the  pews, 
Turned  down  his  Sunday  buckled  shoes, 
Knight  Lawrence — ere  that  latest  cruise — 
The  stainless  sinner! 

91 


At  Trinity 


Trite  wonder,  where  his  tomb  doth  stand. 
Had  he  a  thought  ?    The  rector's  hand 
He  pressed,  most  like.    Just  back  to  land, 
And  drove  to  dinner. 

Yet,  haply,  here  from  me  a  span, 
Some  stopped  to  chat  of  the  new  man 
In  Portugal,  and  his  great  plan 
For  Boney  brewing. 

How  Burr'd  turned  up  again,  some  said, 
Young  Irving  made  abroad  great  head, 
And  how  of  Gallic  power  the  spread 
We'd  all  be  ruing. 

Splash,  splash!  the  midnight's  fresh  laid  dust 
The  swift  aids  churn  the  mud — needs  must, 
The  troops,  from  off  Long  Island  thrust, 
Are  marching  nor'ward. 

Lord  Sterling's  taken,  and  his  men 
All  slain — the  field  was  but  a  pen 
Of  slaughter:  we're  the  King's  again 
From  this  time  forward. 

It  buffets  back  the  lines-men's  drum, 
Steel-fringed  the  scarlet  ribbons  come, 
Strong  silence  through  the  sullen  hum 
St.  George  back  bringing. 

Even  the  gliding  of  their  files, 
In  step  that  tells  upon  the  miles, 
They  wheel — cling,  clang,  upon  the  aisles 
Their  muskets  ringing. 


At  Trinity 


Strain  pipe  and  bellows!  Belfry  sway! 
Roar  street  and  slip !    We  greet  to-day 
Primmest  of  patres  patrice, 

Great  George! — it  endeth. 

Scant  gleaner  I  amid  the  dead; 
The  reaper  closely  harvested ; 
A  gesture  here,  a  word  there  said, 
Are  all  he  lendeth. 

What  point  or  purpose  had  their  fate? 
They  lived,  and  unlived ;  like  a  slate 
Their  old  place  is — our  names  the  late 
Their  places  borrow. 

Rubbed  out,  writ  in ;  it  seemeth  strange 
To  me,  and  plain  to  you — we'll  change; 
The  old  thought  and  the  new  will  range 
This  time  to-morrow. 

And,  silent  ones,  if  what  one  saith, 
You  hear,  and  comforts  life  in  death 
As  death  in  life,  you'll  wish  for  breath 
To  make  me  know  it. 

For,  somehow,  when  first  seen  the  place, 
It  seemed  to  nourish  more  the  grace 
Of  kinship  than  did  all  the  space 
Above,  below  it. 

Come  on,  friend — here  we  may  not  lie; 
Our  place  is  taken,  yet  may  I, 
And  you,  find  some  day  time  to  die — 
A  rest  remaineth. 


At  Trinity 


Some  spot  is  ours — a  quiet  nook, 
Where  shade  and  shine  make  pipe  and 
To  idlers  pleasant :  thither  look, 
Where  peace  sole  reigneth. 


LAWRENCE  AND  LUDLOW 


On  the  arrival  of  the  remains  of  Capt.  Lawrence  and  Lieut. 
Ludlow,  which  are  to  rest  forever  in  Trinity  Churchyard 

Relics  of  the  fallen  brave! 

Tenants  of  an  honour'd  tomb ! 
Conscious  pride  exalts  the  wave 

Whose  swelling  bosom  bears  you  home. 

Ocean  hails  you,  gallant  souls! 

Now  once  more  his  realm  you  cross ; 
And  each  billow  as  it  rolls 

Moans  an  anthem  for  your  loss. 

Sons  of  Glory!    Mighty  Dead! 

Welcome  to  your  parent  land; 
Softly  here  shall  rest  your  head, 

Pillow'd  by  your  brother's  hand. 

Lawrence!    ludlow!    Sons  of  Fame! 
Here  shall  rise  the  sculptur'd  stone; 

NOBLE  IS  THE  HERO'S  NAME, 
GLORY  CLAIMS  IT  AS  HER  OWN ! 


95 


THE  GRAVE  OF  LAWRENCE 
Trinity  Churchyard 

Clinton  Scollard 

Morn  and  noon  of  day  and  even,  human  ebb  and 
flow; 

Overhead,  the  stars  of  midnight, — scarce  the  faintest 

glow- 
Shrunken  into  misty  marsh-fires  by  the  city's  glare; 
Here  he  sleeps,  our  sailor  hero, — pause  and  hail  him 

fair! 

Here  he  sleeps  where  jostling  Wall  Street  merges  in 
Broadway, 

And  the  roar  is  as  a  legion  leaping  to  the  fray. 

Out  from  Trinity's  dim  portal  floats  the  chanting 
choir ; 

Matchless  midst  the  girdling  granite  lifts  the  graceful 
spire. 

Many  si  umber  ers  around  him,  men  of  church  and 

state; 

Here  he  sleeps,  our  sailor  hero,  great  among  the 
great ! 

Simple  lines  to  mark  his  slumber;  how  the  letters 

speak ! 

"Lawrence"    (hark,    ye   money-getters!)    "of  the 
Chesapeake!" 

96 


The  Grave  of  Lawrence  97 

Stone  may  call  in  clearer  accents  than  the  loudest 

iiP. 

Just  a  name !    What  does  it  cry  you  ?    ' '  Don't  give  up 
the  ship!" 

Aye,  there's  something  more  than  millions, — a  far 
nobler  aim! 

Here  he  sleeps,  our  sailor  hero,  nothing  but  a  name! 
Yet  (and  who  can  pierce  the  future?)  this  may  one 
day  be 

As  a  burning  inspiration  both  on  land  and  sea. 
7 


DESCRIPTIVE  VIEW  OF  NEW  YORK,  1813 

Thomas  Eaton 

The  Lord  supreme  the  basis  laid 
For  science,  commerce,  and  for  trade; 
And  sent  a  wise  and  chosen  race, 
To  build  and  beautify  the  place. 
Huge  fabrics  rising  into  view, 
With  shops  of  trade,  and  temples  too, 
Betray  the  enterprise  and  zeal 
The  emulous  projectors  feel. 
On  either  bay  a  street  is  laid, 
And  commons  into  parks  are  made; 
While  num'rous  shorter  streets  and  lanes 
Divide  and  check  the  bushy  plains. 
Anon  the  builder  stops  and  views 
The  rising  village  as  it  grows — 
The  shores  are  fring'd  with  docks  and  slips 
And  boast  their  sev'ral  thousand  ships, 
With  schooners,  sloops,  and  brigs  and  boats, 
And  ev'ry  kind  of  thing  that  floats, 
From  ev'ry  nation  on  the  globe, 
That  makes  a  pin,  a  book,  or  robe. 
And  here  the  southern  merchant  hies, 
With  fancy  goods  the  place  supplies, 
While  Ireland  her  grocers  sends, 
With  rum  to  treat  her  Yankee  friends; 
98 


Descriptive  View  of  New  York 

And  England,  France,  and  humbler  Wales 

Send  here  to  see  what  trade  prevails, 

And  try  if  any  chance  there  be 

To  undermine  our  liberty. 

A  transatlantic  pride  they  bring, 

With  follies,  fashions,  every  thing. 

Now  leaving  out  the  idle  scene 

At  gov'ment-house  and  bowling-green, 

The  southern  park,  now  batt'ry  call'd, 

The  stone  and  turf  with  which  it's  wall'd, 

Its  forts  and  guns  and  drinking-place — 

To  eastward  Chatham  street  we'll  trace. 

But,  passing  Tammany,  we  come 

Directly  to  the  Museum. 

A  stately  house,  completely  full 

Of  mammoth  bones,  or  bones  of  bull, 

With  birds  and  beasts,  and  min'ral  ore, 

And  things  that  ne'er  were  known  before. 

It  is  no  mark  of  knave  or  fool, 

To  visit  oft  this  nat'ral  school, 

For  good  and  wise  men  have  been  in, 

And  yet  come  out  as  wise  again. 

But  longer  here  we  may  not  be, 

As  we  have  other  things  to  see; 

And  to  observe  how  Chatham  street 

Has  suff  er'd  from  the  fire  of  late. 

Near  sixty  houses  laid  in  dust, 

And  this  of  evils  not  the  worst; 

For  families  two  hundred  more 

Were  robb'd  of  home  in  one  short  hour. 

On  lofty  house  high  mounted  up, 

E'en  tiptoe  on  the  very  top, 

I  view  the  wide  extended  block, 

Where  goats  and  sheep  commingled  flock. 


ioo       Descriptive  View  of  New  York 

Broadway  the  first  that  takes  the  eye, 
The  noblest  street  I  here  espy, 
The  new-swept  side-walks  neat  and  clean, 
With  poplars  shaded  sweet  and  green, 
And  sev'ral  thousand  stylish  folks 
Are  seen  repassing  on  the  walks. 
Here  side  by  side  close  converse  hold, 
A  mincing  pair,  till  each  has  told, 
Perhaps,  the  whole  she  thinks  or  knows 
About  her  prospects  and  her  beaux. 
And  there  a  gentleman  complete, 
In  fashion  all,  from  head  to  feet, 
With  hugest  seal  and  ruffles  wide, 
Now  strutting  in  the  height  of  pride, 
And  in  his  heart  a  want  of  sense, 
His  long-neglected  judgment  hence; 
For  so  the  fashion  is,  and  he, 
For  fashion-sake,  must  shallow  be. 
For  miles  around  we  now  behold 
New  objects,  and  new  scenes  unfold; 
The  num'rous  steeples,  tow'ring  high, 
Seen  best  from  ships  when  passing  by, 
And  next  the  thousand  streets  appear, 
Some  fill'd  with  carts  and  others  clear, 
Extending  now  the  pow'r  of  sight, 
We  view  the  spreads  of  canvas  white 
Which  press  the  oval  hulks  along, 
As  swift  as  horses,  twice  as  strong. 
With  eagle-eye  we  now  can  see 
Where  all  the  public  houses  be: 
And  leaving  churches  unobserv'd, 
And  places  where  the  devil's  serv'd, 
We  prospect  have  of  Fed'ral  Hall, 
Of  hotels  and  of  taverns  small ! 


Descriptive  View  of  New  York  101 


And  tow'ring  high  above  the  rest, 

From  Jersey  bank  observ'd  the  best, 

Or  when  descending  Hudson  bold, 

The  City  Hotel  we  behold; 

And  next  to  that  Mechanic  Hall, 

High  built,  though  narrow  made  and  small; 

Now  Washington  and  Tammany 

Which  own'd  by  politicians  be; 

Commercial  next,  and  old  Tontine, 

Whose  earthen  roofs,  sun-beaten  shine, 

And  Phoenix  new,  and  num'rous  banks, 

Where  wealth  plays  off  her  shaving  pranks. 

Now  turning  here  and  there  we  see 

Where  all  the  public  auctions  be; 

What  motley  crowds  assemble  there; 

Or  loss  or  benefit  to  share — 

The  country  folks,  an  honest  set, 

Here  cheaply  buy,  but  nothing  get. 

And  there  the  market  glutted  stands 

That  ev'ry  class  of  men  commands, 

For  rich  and  poor  commingle  here, 

And  buy  they  must,  or  cheap  or  dear — 

They  have  no  choice,  for  all  must  eat, 

And  butchers  always  sell  their  meat. 

Now  round  and  round  we  turn  to  see 

All  kind  of  folks,  or  bond  or  free, 

Or  black,  or  white,  or  brown,  or  grey, 

Blasphemers,  or  the  folks  that  pray, 

With  carriages  that  go  and  come, 

Some  Quaker-like,  and  glit'ring  some. 

But  weary  grown,  at  length,  of  vain 

Review,  we  straight  descend  again, 

To  where  the  sudden  change  of  scene 

Makes  us  forget  where  we  have  been . 


ON  THE  BRITISH  BLOCKADE,  AND 
EXPECTED  ATTACK  ON  NEW  YORK— i 


Philip  Freneau 

Old  Neversink,  with  bonnet  blue, 
The  present  times  may  surely  rue 
When  told  what  England  means  to  do. 

Where  from  the  deep  his  head  he  rears 
The  din  of  war  salutes  his  ears, 
That  teased  him  not  for  thirty  years. 

With  tents  I  see  his  mountain  spread, 
The  soldier  to  the  summit  led, 
And  cannon  planted  on  his  head: 

From  Shrewsbury  beach  to  Sandy  Hook 
The  country  has  a  martial  look, 
And  Quakers  skulk  in  every  nook. — 

What  shall  be  done  in  such  a  case? — 

We  ask  again  with  woeful  face, 

To  save  the  trade  and  guard  the  place? 

Where  mounted  guns  the  porte  secure, 
The  cannon  at  the  embrasure, 
Will  British  fleets  attempt  to  moor? 

102 


On  the  British  Blockade 

Their  feelings  are  alive  and  sore 
For  what  they  got  at  Baltimore, 
When,  with  disgrace,  they  left  the  shore, 

And  will  revenge  it,  if  they  can, 

On  town  and  country,  maid  and  man — 

And  all  they  fear  is  Fulton's  plan; 

Torpedoes  planted  in  the  deep, 
Whose  blast  may  put  them  all  to  sleep, 
Or  ghostify  them  at  a  sweep. 

Another  scheme,  entirely  new, 
Is  hammering  on  his  anvil  too, 
That  frightens  Christian,  Turk,  and  Jew. 

A  frigate  meant  to  sail  by  steam ! — 
How  can  she  else  but  torture  them, 
Be  proof  to  all  their  fire  and  flame. 

A  feast  she  cooks  for  England's  sons 
Of  scalded  heads  and  broken  bones 
Discharged  from  iron -hearted  guns. 

Black  Sam  himself,  before  he  died, 
Such  suppers  never  did  provide: — 
Such  dinners  roasted,  boil'd,  and  fry'd. 

To  make  a  brief  of  all  I  said — 
If  to  attack  they  change  blockade 
Their  godships  will  be  well  repaid 

With  water,  scalding  from  the  pot, 
With  melted  lead  and  flaming  shot, 
With  vollies  of — I  know  not  what, 


On  the  British  Blockade 


The  British  lads  will  be  so  treated: 
Their  wooden  walls  will  be  so  heated, 
Their  ruin  will  be  soon  completed. 

Our  citizens  shall  stare  and  wonder — 

The  Neversink  repel  their  thunder 

And  Cockburn  miss  a  handsome  plunder. 


ON  THE  PROSPECT  OF  RETURNING  TO  NEW 
YORK,  AFTER  THE  WAR,  IN  1815 

JOSIAH  SHIPPEY 

For  thee,  New  York,  my  much-loved  home  I  sigh, 
There  let  me  live,  O  Heaven,  there  let  me  die. 


105 


BRONX,  1818 


Joseph  Rodman  Drake 

I  sat  me  down  upon  a  green  bank-side, 
Skirting  the  smooth  edge  of  a  gentle  river, 

Whose  waters  seem'd  unwillingly  to  glide, 

Like  parting  friends,  who  linger  while  they  sever; 

Enforced  to  go,  yet  seeming  still  unready, 

Backward  they  wind  their  way  in  many  a  wistful 
eddy. 

Grey  o'er  my  head  the  yellow-vested  willow 
Ruffled  its  hoary  top  in  the  fresh  breezes, 

Glancing  in  light,  like  spray  on  a  green  billow, 
Or  the  fine  frostwork  which  young  winter  freezes; 

When  first  his  power  in  infant  pastime  trying, 

Congeals  sad  autumn's  tears  on  the  dead  branches 
lying. 

From  rocks  around  hung  the  loose  ivy  dangling, 
And  in  the  clefts  sumach  of  liveliest  green, 

Bright  ising-stars  the  little  beach  was  spangling, 
The  gold-cup  sorrel  from  his  gauzy  screen 

Shone  like  a  fairy  crown,  enchased  and  beaded, 

Left  on  some  morn,  when  light  flash'd  in  their  eyes 
unheeded. 

106 


Bronx 


107 


The  humbird  shook  his  sun-touch 'd  wings  around, 
The  bluefinch  caroll'd  in  the  still  retreat; 

The  antic  squirrel  caper 'd  on  the  ground 
Where  lichens  made  a  carpet  for  his  feet ; 

Through  the  transparent  waves,  the  ruddy  minkle 

Shot  up  in  glimmering  sparks  his  red  fin's  tiny  twinkle. 

There  were  dark  cedars,  with  loose,  mossy  tresses, 
White-powder'd  dog-trees,  and  stiff  hollies  flaunt- 
ing 

Gaudy  as  rustics  in  their  May-day  dresses, 

Blue  pelloret  from  purple  leaves  upslanting 
A  modest  gaze,  like  eyes  of  a  young  maiden 
Shining  beneath  dropp'd  lids  the  evening  of  her 
wedding. 

The  breeze  fresh  springing  from  the  lips  of  morn, 
Kissing  the  leaves,  and  sighing  so  to  lose  'em, 

The  winding  of  the  merry  locust's  horn, 

The  glad  spring  gushing  from  the  rock's  bare 
bosom : 

Sweet  sights,  sweet  sounds,  all  sights,  all  sounds 
excelling, 

O!  'twas  a  ravishing  spot,  form'd  for  a  poet's  dwell- 
ing. 

And  did  I  leave  thy  loveliness,  to  stand 

Again  in  the  dull  world  of  earthly  blindness? 

Pain'd  with  the  pressure  of  unfriendly  hands, 
Sick  of  smooth  looks,  agued  with  icy  kindness? 

Left  I  for  this  thy  shades,  where  none  intrude, 

To  prison  wandering  thought  and  mar  sweet  soli- 
tude? 


io8 


Bronx 


Yet  I  will  look  upon  thy  face  again, 
My  own  romantic  Bronx,  and  it  will  be 

A  face  more  pleasant  than  the  face  of  men. 
Thy  waves  are  old  companions,  I  shall  see 

A  well-remember' d  form  in  each  old  tree, 

And  hear  a  voice  long  loved  in  thy  wild  minstrelsy. 


TAMMANY  HALL,  1819 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck 

There's  a  barrel  of  porter  at  Tammany  Hall, 
And  the  bucktails  are  swigging  it  all  the  night 
long; 

In  the  time  of  my  boyhood  'twas  pleasant  to  call 
For  a  seat  and  cigar,  'mid  the  jovial  throng. 

That  beer  and  those  bucktails  I'll  never  forget; 

But  oft,  when  alone,  and  unnoticed  by  all, 
I  think,  is  the  porter-cask  foaming  there  yet? 

Are  the  bucktails   still   swigging  at  Tammany 
Hall? 

No!  the  porter  was  out  long  before  it  was  stale, 
But  some  blossoms  on  many  a  nose  brightly  shone, 

And  the  speeches  inspired  by  the  fumes  of  the  ale, 
Had  the  fragrance  of  porter  when  porter  was  gone. 

How  much  Cozzens  will  draw  of  such  beer  ere  he 
dies 

Is  a  question  of  moment  to  me  and  to  all ; 
For  still  dear  to  my  soul,  as  'twas  then  to  my  eyes, 
Is  that  barrel  of  porter  at  Tammany  Hall. 


109 


ELECTION  RETURNS  AT  TAMMANY  HALL 

1819 


Gulian  Crommelin  Verplanck 

The  time  next  May — the  place,  suppose 

Where,  when  in  town,  his  saintship  goes; 

Bad  news  flows  in — a  sullen  gloom 

O'erspreads  each  face  that  crowds  the  room. 

While  sure  forebodings  fill  the  breast, 

In  vain,  they  strive  to  hope  the  best; 

Before  them  spread,  returns  are  seen, 

Of  votes  from  Ulster,  Orange,  Greene. 

Numbers  in  each,  before  unknown, 

Of  public  feeling,  mark  the  tone — 

Gilbert  and  Miller  look,  and  groan. 

But  one  whose  hopes  not  yet  are  fled, 

Will  know  how  other  counties  sped; 

"Queens?    Richmond? — gone! — nay,  ask  no  more! 

"And  Rockland? — worse  than  e'er  before! 

"Westchester? — all  our  hopes  has  crossed! 

"But  Dutchess? — Dutchess  too  is  lost!!" 

O-k-y  had  said  it  promised  well , 

But  some  are  bought  who  cannot  sell ! 

Now  marks  the  muse  in  ev'ry  face. 

What  varied  tunes  the  passions  trace; 

Some  sink  in  sullen  mute  despair, 

Some  bite  the  lip,  or  rend  the  hair — 

One  raves  aloud,  or  curses  flings 

On  Rockland,  Putnam,  Orange,  Kings. 


no 


TO  SIMON 


The  Omnipotent  and  Omnipresent  Caterer  for  Fashionable 
Supper-parties. 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck 

AND 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake 

Dear  Simon!    Prince  of  pastry-cooks, 

Oysters,  and  ham,  and  cold  neat's  tongue, 
Pupil  of  Mitchill's  cookery-books, 

And  bosom  friend  of.  old  and  young! 
Sure  from  some  higher,  brighter  sphere 

In  showers  of  gravy  thou  wert  hurled, 
To  aid  our  routs  and  parties  here, 

And  grace  the  fashionable  world! 

Taught  by  thy  art,  we  closely  follow 

And  ape  the  English  lords  and  misses; 
For  Music,  we've  the  Black  Apollo, 

And  Mrs.  Poppleton  for  kisses. 
We  borrow  all  the  rest,  you  know, 

Our  glass  from  Christie  for  the  time, 
Plate  from  our  friends  to  make  a  show, 

And  cash,  to  pay  small  bills  from  Prime. 

What  though  old  Squaretoes  will  not  bless  thee — 
He  fears  your  power  and  dreads  your  bill ; 


in 


112 


To  Simon 


Mother  and  her  dear  girls  caress  thee, 
And  pat  thy  cheek,  and  praise  thee  still. 

Oh,  Simon!  how  we  envy  thee, 

When  belles  that  long  have  frowned  on  all, 

Greet  thee  with  smiles,  and  bend  the  knee, 
To  beg  you'll  help  them  "give  a  ball!" 

Though  it  is  ungenteel  to  think, 

For  thought  affects  the  nerves  and  brain! 
Yet  oft  we  think  of  thee,  and  drink 

Thy  health  in  Lynch's  best  champagne. 
'Tis  pity  that  thy  signal  merit 

Should  slumber  in  so  low  a  station ; 
Act,  Simon,  like  a  lad  of  spirit, 

And  thou,  in  time,  mayst  rule  the  nation! 

Break  up  your  Saturdays  "at  home, " 

Cut  Guinea  and  your  sable  clan, 
Buy  a  new  eye-glass  and  become 

A  dandy  and  a  gentleman. 
You  must  speak  French,  and  make  a  bow, 

Ten  lessons  are  enough  for  that; 
And  Leavenworth  will  teach  you  how 

To  wear  your  corsets  and  cravat. 

Knock  all  your  chambers  into  one, 

Hire  fiddlers,  glasses,  Barons  too, 
And  then  invite  the  whole  haul-ton; 

Ask  Hosack,  he  can  tell  you  who. 
The  great  that  are,  and — wish  to  be, 

Within  your  brilliant  rooms  will  meet, 
And  belles  of  high  and  low  degree, 

From  Broadway  up  to  Cherry  Street. 


To  Simon 


This  will  insure  you  free  admission 

To  all  our  routs,  for  years  to  come; 
And  when  you  die,  a  long  procession 

Of  dandies  shall  surround  your  tomb. 
We'll  raise  an  almond  statue  where 

In  dust  your  honoured  head  reposes; 
Mothers  shall  lead  their  daughters  there, 

And  bid  them  twine  your  bust  with  roses. 


THE  BALLOON,  1819 


Moses  Y.  Scott 

"Huzza!  Huzza!  clear,  clear  the  way! 
"Run — the  Balloon  goes  up  to-day!" 
See  old  and  young,  black,  white,  and  all 
Fill  every  passage  to  Vauxhall ! 
Vauxhall,  the  gold — the  flooded  shore 
Where  streams  from  every  quarter  pour. 
See  the  innumerable  throng, 
That  in  the  Bowery  crowd  along! 
See  dandy  coats  and  bonnets  gay, 
Shawls,  ribbons,  stream  along  Broad-way! 
See  carts  and  coaches  dashing  on! 
See  men  and  boys  and  women  run ! 
They  come,  they  come,  from  every  side, 
Like  bubbles  on  a  rushing  tide! 
They  drive  with  half  Niagara's  force — 
Nor  ever  fleeter  was  his  course. 
Greece  never  pour'd  to  Troja's  wall 

So  great  a  throng,  so  vast  a  battle — 
Call,  call  your  Hector  forth,  Vauxhall! 

Their  shouts  arise!  their  chariots  rattle. 
Is  it  revenge,  or  hate  or  fear, 
Or  wonder  urges  their  career? 
It  must  be  Wonder's  trumpet  loud! 
Nought  else  could  draw  so  vast  a  crowd. 
114 


The  Balloon 


115 


But  soon  the  driving  storm  is  past — 

They  all  have  reached  the  goal  at  last ! 

Why,  what  a  squeezing,  Virgil's  bees 

Were  not  so  numerous  as  these! 

Such  multitudes,  Communipaw1 

Of  evening  singers  never  saw. 

Nor  did  a  sunbeam  ever  sprawl 

Such  swarms  as  Monsieur  Guille's  ball. 

Like  sheep  enclosed  that  burst  their  bar — 

Like  locusts  darkening  Egypt's  air, 

They  push  and  crowd,  and  squeeze,  and  — "O, 

That  rascal  trod  upon  my  toe!" 

"Back,  back! — there — yonder's  the  balloon! 

"We  all  shall  see  it  moving  soon!" 

The  multitude  turns  all  its  eyes 
Right  where  the  flying  wonder  lies. 
From  cart  and  window ;  coach  and  door, 
From  wall,  and  housetop  covered  o'er, 
From  step  and  block,  and  shed  and  tree, 
Where  boys,  like  squirrels,  climb  to  see, 
All  gaze,  all  wonder,  all  desire 
To  see  poor  Monsieur  Guille  higher. 
'Tis  all  attention,  save  when  rise 
Some  false  alarm  of  "there  it  flies!" 
Or  "Voyez  done!  le  ballon  va! — 
Mon  Dieu!    J'ai  peur  qu'il  n'ira  pas!" 
Or  save  when  in  the  crowd  there  pass 
Some  learned  disputes  about  the  gas. 
One  cannot  get  it  in  his  eye 
What  makes  the  mighty  bladder  fly. 

. 1  It  was  from  Communipaw  that  the  Moschetoes  came,  which 
swarmed  upon  New  York  this  season. 


i6 


The  Balloon 


One  fears  delay  is  loss  of  toil ; 
And  one  is  sure  the  gas  will  spoil. 
And  now  to  show  his  depth  profound, 
Some  wise  man  calls  an  audience  round. 
With  arm  akimbo,  and  with  brow 
That  says — behold  importance  now ! 
"I  can  expound  all  to  your  eyes — 
"Mark  yon  circumference  e'er  it  flies! 
"You  see  the  gas  within  is  brighter 
"And  being  twenty-one  times  lighter 
"Than" —    But  a  loud  shout  interposes. 
And  with  "She  mounts"  the  harangue  closes. 
"Huzza!  huzza!"  tongues,  hands,  and  eyes, 
Shout,  clap,  and  strain  to  see  it  rise — 
All  tiptoe  stand —  "Up!  up,  Balloon!" 
But  ah!  it  stops  this  side  the  moon. 
"Friends,  you  can  homeward  take  your  way! 
"The  balloon — don't  ascend  to-day!" 


ODE  TO  FORTUNE 


Fitz-Greene  Halleck 

AND 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake 

Fair  lady  with  the  bandaged  eye! 

I'll  pardon  all  thy  scurvy  tricks, 
So  thou  wilt  cut  me  and  deny 

Alike  thy  kisses  and  thy  kicks: 
I'm  quite  contented  as  I  am, 

Have  cash  to  keep  my  duns  at  bay, 
Can  choose  between  beefsteaks  and  ham, 

And  drink  Madeira  every  day. 

My  station  is  the  middle  rank, 

My  fortune — just  a  competence — 
Ten  thousand  in  the  Franklin  Bank, 

And  twenty  in  the  six  per  cents. ; 
No  amorous  chains  my  heart  enthrall, 

I  neither  borrow,  lend,  nor  sell ; 
Fearless  I  roam  the  City  Hall, 

And  "bite  my  thumb"  at  Sheriff  Bell. 

The  horse  that  twice  a  week  I  ride, 
At  Mother  Dawson's  eats  his  fill; 

My  books  at  Goodrich's  abide, 
My  country-seat  is  Weehawk  hill; 

My  morning  lounge  is  Eastburn's  shop, 
117 


u8 


Ode  to  Fortune 


At  Poppleton's  I  take  my  lunch, 
Niblo  prepares  my  mutton-chop, 

And  Jennings  makes  my  whiskey-punch. 

When  merry,  I  the  hours  amuse 

By  squibbing  Bucktails,  Guards,  and  Balls, 
And  when  I'm  troubled  with  the  blues, 

Damn  Clinton  and  abuse  canals: 
Then,  Fortune!  since  I  ask  no  prize, 

At  least  preserve  me  from  thy  frown ! 
The  man  who  don't  attempt  to  rise, 

'Twere  cruelty  to  tumble  down. 


WEEHAWKEN,  1820 


Fitz-Greene  Halleck 

Weehawken! — In  thy  mountain  scenery  yet, 

All  we  adore  of  Nature,  in  her  wild 
And  frolic  hour  of  infancy,  is  met; 

And  never  has  a  summer's  morning  smiled 
Upon  a  lovelier  scene,  than  the  full  eye 
Of  the  enthusiast  revels  on — when  high 

Amid  thy  forest  solitudes,  he  climbs 

O'er  crags,  that  proudly  tower  above  the  deep, 
And  knows  that  sense  of  danger  which  sublimes 

The  breathless  moment — when  his  daring  step 
Is  on  the  verge  of  the  cliff,  and  he  can  hear 
The  low  dash  of  the  wave  with  startled  ear — 

Like  the  death-music  of  his  coming  doom, 

And  clings  to  the  green  turf  with  desperate  force, 

As  the  heart  clings  to  life ;  and  when  resume 
The  currents  in  his  veins  their  wonted  course, 

There  lingers  a  deep  feeling — like  the  moan 

Of  wearied  ocean,  when  the  storm  is  gone. 

In  such  an  hour  he  turns,  and  on  his  view, 
Ocean  and  earth  and  heaven  burst  before  him; 

Clouds  slumbering  at  his  feet,  and  the  clear  blue 
Of  summer's  sky  in  beauty  bending  o'er  him — 
119 


120 


Weehawken 


The  city  bright  below;  and  far  away, 
Sparkling  in  golden  light,  his  own  romantic  bay 

Tall  spire,  and  glittering  roof,  and  battlement, 
And  banners  floating  in  the  sunny  air; 

And  white  sails  o'er  the  calm  blue  waters  bent, 
Green  isle,  and  circling  shore,  are  blended  there 

In  wild  reality.    When  life  is  old, 

And  many  a  scene  forgot,  the  heart  will  hold 

Its  memory  of  this ;  nor  lives  there  one 
Whose  infant  breath  was  drawn,  or  boyhood's 
days 

Of  happiness  were  passed  beneath  that  sun, 

That  in  his  manhood's  prime  can  calmly  gaze 
Upon  that  bay,  or  on  that  mountain  stand, 
Nor  feel  the  prouder  of  his  native  land. 


BURLESQUE  ADDRESS 


On  the  opening  of  the  New  Park  Theatre,  after  the  fire, 
September  I,  1821. 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck 

Ladies  and  gentlemen, 

Enlighten 'd  as  you  are,  you  all  must  know 

Our  playhouse  was  burnt  down,  some  time  ago, 

Without  insurance —    'Twas  a  famous  blaze, 

Fine  fun  for  firemen,  but  dull  sport  for  plays. 

The  proudest  of  our  whole  dramatic  corps 

Such  warm  reception  never  met  before. 

It  was  a  woeful  night  for  us  and  ours ; 

Worse  than  dry  weather  to  the  fields  and  flowers. 

The  evening  found  us  gay  as  summer's  lark, 

Happy  as  sturgeons  in  the  Tappan  Sea ; 
The  morning — like  the  dove  from  Noah's  Ark, 

As  homeless,  houseless,  innocent  as  she, 
But — thanks  to  those  who  ever  have  been  known 
To  love  the  public  interest — when  their  own ; 
Thanks  to  the  men  of  talent  and  of  trade, 
Who  joy  in  doing  well — when  they're  well  paid, 
Again  our  fire- worn  mansion  is  rebuilt, 
Inside  and  outside,  neatly  carv'd  and  gilt, 
With  best  of  paint  and  canvas,  lath  and  plaster, 
The  Lord  bless  Beekman  and  John  Jacob  Astor. 


121 


ON  A  FORGOTTEN  BY-WAY 


Andrew  E.  Watrous 

The  shabby  street-cars  jingling  go 

Where  modish  coach-wheels  rolled  and  ran 

And  back  here  from  the  roaring  Row- 
That  leads  from  Beekman  Street  to  Ann, 

En  route  to  sup  at  Philip  Hone's 

And  quiz  our  New  World  belles  and  beaux 
Her  feet  tripped  o'er  these  very  stones — 

Fair  Kemble.    And  thy  magic  toes, 

Thou  fairer  Fanny,  Ellsler  named, 
Twinkled  adown  the  pavement  drear, 

While  (for  thy  lissome  sake  defamed) 
Followed — with  wraps — thy  Chevalier. 

A  gown  of  white,  a  girlish  form, 

Footsteps  unused  that  trembling  pause! 

'Tis  Garcia,  frightened  by  the  storm 
Of  this,  her  ddbut  night's  applause. 

Again,  oh,  crinoline  and  mitts! 

Oh,  blue  and  brass  with  ruffles  dight ! 
A  decorous  mob  of  worthy  cits — 

The  ball  to  "Boz"  is  at  its  height. 


On  a  Forgotten  By-Way 


'Tis  Theatre  Alley,  yet  its  name 

They've  spared.  A  squalid  place  by  day, 
Where  wrangling  boys  for  coppers  game, 

Where  sottish  vagrants  snooze  or  stray. 

But  when  the  sun  shines  slant  and  low 

O'er  Trinity's  subduing  vane, 
Vanish  these  sordid  shapes,  and  so 

The  alley  grows  itself  again. 

And  when  the  dusk  in  deeper  gloom 

Is  whelmed,  and  o'er  the  flag-stones  damp, 

As  if  the  old  stage-door  to  'lume, 
Glimmers  that  lonely,  midway  lamp. 

These  dear,  dead  ladies,  they  that  thrilled 
The  gay  world  of  the  "old  Park's"  time, 

Are  with  me,  and — a  vow  fulfilled — 
To  their  sweet  manes  this  light  rhyme. 


LAFAYETTE  EN  AMERIQUE. 


New  York,  September,  1824. 
Pierre  Jean  de  Beranger. 

Republicains,  quel  cortege  s'avance? 

—  Un  vieux  guerrier  debarque  parmi  nous. 

—  Vient-il  d'un  roi  vous  jurer  ralliance? 

—  II  a  des  rois  allume  le  courroux. 

—  Est-il  puissant? — Seul  il  franchit  les  ondes. 

—  Qu'a-t-il  done  fait? — II  a  brise  des  fers. 
Gloire  imortelle  a  l'homme  des  deux  mondes, 
Jours  de  triomphe,  eclairez  l'univers! 

Ce  vieil  ami  que  tant  d'ivresse  accueille, 
Par  un  heros  ce  heros  adopte, 
Benit  jadis,  a  sa  premiere  feuille, 
L'arbre  naissant  de  notre  liberte, 
Mais,  aujourd'hui  que  l'arbre  et  son  feuillage 
Bravent  en  paix  la  foudre  et  les  hivers, 
II  vient  s'asseoir  sous  son  fertile  ombrage. 
Jours  de  triomphe,  eclairez  l'univers! 

Autour  de  lui  vois  nos  chefs,  vois  nos  sages, 
Nos  vieux  soldats  se  rappelant  ses  traits; 
Vois  tout  un  peuple  et  ces  tribus  sauvages 
A  son  nom  seul  sortant  de  leurs  forets. 
L'arbre  sacre  sur  ce  concours  immense 
Forme  un  abri  de  rameaux  toujours  verts: 
Les  vents  au  loin  porteront  sa  semence; 
Jours  de  triomphe,  Eclairez  l'univers! 


124 


FIRST  OF  MAY  IN  NEW  YORK 


Sung  with  applause  at  Chatham  Garden,  1825. 

Robert  Stevenson  Coffin 

First  of  May,  clear  the  way! 
Baskets,  Barrows,  Trundles; 

Take  good  care,  mind  the  Ware! 
Betty,  where's  the  bundles? 

Pots  and  Kettles,  Broken  Victuals, 
Feather  Beds,  Plaster  Heads, 
Looking  Glasses,  Torn  Mattresses, 
Spoons  and  Ladles,  Babies'  Cradles, 
Cups  and  Saucers,  Salts  and  Castors, 

Hurry,  scurry — grave  and  gay, 

All  must  trudge  the  first  of  May. 

Now  we  start,  mind  the  cart! 
Shovels,  Bedclothes,  Bedding; 
On  we  go,  soft  and  slow, 
Like  a  beggar's  wedding! 

Jointed  Stools,  Domestic  Tools, 
Chairs  unbacked,  Tables  cracked, 
Gridiron  black,  Spit  and  Jack, 
Trammels,  Hooks,  Musty  Books, 
Old  Potatoes,  Ventilators, 
Hurry,  scurry,  grave  or  gay, 
On  we  trudge,  the  First  of  May. 
125 


First  of  May  in  New  York 


Now  we've  got,  to  the  spot, 
Bellows,  Bureau,  Settee; 

Rope  untie,  mind  your  eye, 
Pray,  be  careful  Betty; 

Lord!  what's  there?    Broken  Ware; 
Decanters  dash'd,  China  smash'd, 
Pickles  spoiled,  Carpets  soiled, 
Sideboard  scratch'd,  Cups  unmatch'd, 
Empty  Casks,  Broken  Flasks, 

Hurry,  scurry — grave  or  gay, 

Devil  take  the  First  of  May. 


HOBOKEN,  1825 


This  place  is  opposite  New  York,  on  the  Jersey  shore,  and  has 
become  notorious  as  the  battle-ground  of  duellists. 

Robert  Stevenson  Coffin 

To  the  dark,  bloody  shore  of  Hoboken  is  gliding 
The  skiff  of  false  honour,  deep  freighted  and  strong; 
And  the  sceptre  of  murder  its  helm  is  bestriding, 
While  the  fiends  of  false  friendship  propel  it  along. 

Lo,  their  feet  press  the  strand  which  the  billows  are 
laving, 

Nor  heed  they  the  night-bird  that  screams  through  the 
air, 

And  proclaims  that  e'er  long  o'er  a  corse  shall  be 
waving 

The  high  knotty  pine,  the  thorn,  and  the  briar. 

The  battle  is  closed,  and  all  ghastly  and  bleeding, 
The  friend  of  his  murderer  hath  sunk  to  the  earth; 
And  the  skiff  from  the  beach  is  full  quickly  receding, 
While  the  fate  of  true  friendship's  their  subject  of 
mirth. 

Now  the  spirit  of  Cain  on  the  steep  is  reclining, 
While  the  daemons  of  darkness  dance  light  o'er  the 
ground ; 

And  the  grim  fiends  of  hell  for  the  murderer  are 
twining 

The  flowers  of  the  nightshade  his  temples  around. 


127 


AN  ODE  FOR  THE  GRAND  CANAL 
CELEBRATION 


November  4,  1825 

Samuel  Wood  worth 

'Tis  done,  'tis  done!    The  mighty  chain 
Which  joins  bright  Erie  to  the  Main, 
For  ages  shall  perpetuate 
The  glory  of  our  native  State. 

'Tis  done!    The  monarch  of  the  briny  tide, 
Whose  giant  arm  encircles  earth, 

To  virgin  Erie  is  allied, 

A  bright-eyed  nymph  of  mountain  birth. 

Rising  from  their  watery  cells 

Tritons  sport  upon  the  tide, 
And  gaily  blow  their  trumpet-shells 

In  honour  of  the  bride. 

Sea-nymphs  leave  their  coral  caves, 
Deep  beneath  the  ocean  waves, 
Where  they  string  with  tasteful  care 
Pearls  upon  their  sea-green  hair. 

Thetis'  virgin  train  advances, 
Mingling  in  the  bridal  dances; 
Jove  himself  with  raptured  eye 
128 


The  Grand  Canal  Celebration 


Throws  his  forked  thunders  by, 
And  bids  Apollo  seize  his  golden  lyre, 

A  strain  of  joy  to  wake; 
While  Fame  proclaims  that  Ocean's  Sire 

Is  wedded  to  the  goddess  of  the  Lake. 
The  smiling  god  of  song  obeys 
And  heaven  re-echoes  with  his  sounding  lays 


WINTER,  1825 


Samuel  Wood  worth 


Nor  is  stern  Winter's  icy  sceptre  swayed 
O'er  sylvan  scenes  alone — his  shafts  invade 
Our  splendid  city,  too — and  every  street 
Is  rendered  cheerless  by  his  pointed  sleet; 
For  every  arrow  from  the  centaur's  bow, 
Is  tipt  with  ice,  and  feathered,  too,  with  snow. 
The  Battery,  now,  each  verdant  charm  has  lost, 
And  e'en  the  Park  is  silvered  o'er  with  frost; 
Vauxhall  and  Castle-Garden,  late  so  gay, 
Where  night  gave  place  to  artificial  day, 
Are  now  deserted — even  Chatham  mourns, 
And  all  must  droop  till  gentle  Spring  returns. 


But  Winter's  brightest  joy,  in  towns  like  this, 
Is  yet  unsung — I  mean  that  scene  of  bliss 
To  which  our  annual  holy-days  give  birth, 
A  foretaste  of  Elysium  here  on  earth ! 
That  period  to  generous  hearts  so  dear, 
That  little  week  of  joy  that  shuts  the  year, 
And  brings  to  light  the  bright  auspicious  morn, 
When  all  unite  to  hail  a  New- Year  born — 


In  all  my  wanderings  thro'  this  vale  of  tears, 
From  infancy,  to  manhood's  riper  years, 
130 


Winter 


131 


Whatever  pains  assail 'd,  or  griefs  oppress'd, 

Christmas  and  New- Year  always  saw  me  blest! 

A  lengthened  absence  o'er,  how  pleasant,  then, 

The  friends  I  dearest  love  to  meet  again ! 

Grasp  the  warm  hand,  or  share  the  fond  embrace, 

And  see  new  smiles  lit  up  in  every  face ! 

'Twas  Christmas  eve!  the  supper  board  was  spread, 

The  fire  blazed  high,  with  logs  of  hickory  fed; 

The  candles,  too,  unusual  lustre  lent, 

Candles  expressly  made  for  this  event. 

Old  tales  were  told,  the  cheerful  glass  went  round, 

While  peals  of  laughter  made  the  cot  resound. 

A  thousand  welcomes  hail'd  the  truant  boy, 

And  swift  the  moments  flew  on  wings  of  joy; 

Till  (as  they  thought,  too  soon)  the  hour  of  prayer 

Bade  the  young  urchins  to  their  beds  repair. 

But  first  the  stocking,  from  each  little  leg, 

Must  be  suspended  to  a  hook  or  peg, 

That  Santa  Claus,  who  travels  all  the  night, 

Might,  in  the  dark,  bestow  his  favours  right; 

These  rites  observed,  they  take  a  parting  kiss, 

And  go  to  dream  of  morning's  promised  bliss! 

Thus  did  a  week  of  festive  pleasures  roll, 

Till  New-Year's  happy  morning  crown'd  the  whole. 


THE  SWEEP'S  CAROL,  1826 


George  P.  Morris 

Through  the  streets  of  New  York  City, 

Blithely  every  morn, 
I  carolled  o'er  my  artless  ditty, 

Cheerly  though  forlorn! 
Before  the  rosy  light,  my  lay 

Was  to  the  maids  begun, 
Ere  winters  snows  had  passed  away, 

Or  smiled  the  summer  sun. 
Carol-O-a-y-e-ol 

In  summer  months  I'd  fondly  woo, 

Those  merry  dark-eyed  girls, 
With  faces  of  the  ebon  hue, 

And  teeth  like  eastern  pearls! 
One  vowed  my  love  she  would  repay — 

Her  heart  my  song  had  won — 
When  winter  songs  had  passed  away 

Or  smiled  the  summer  sun. 
Carol-O-Si-y-e-o ! 

A  year,  alas !  had  scarcely  flown — 
Hope  beamed  but  to  deceive — 
132 


The  Sweep's  Carol 


Ere  I  was  left  to  weep  alone, 
From  morn  till  dewy  eve! 

She  died  one  dreary  break  of  day  !- 
Grief  weighs  my  heart  upon ! — 

In  vain  the  snows  may  pass  away, 
Or  smile  the  summer  sun. 
Carol-0-a.-y-e-ol 


HARLEM  MARY 


Samuel  Woodworth 

They  sing  of  blue-eyed  Mary, 

Who  gathered  flowers  to  sell, 
But  there's  a  sweeter  fairy 

In  Harlem's  flowery  dell ; 
Whose  violets,  pinks,  and  roses, 

Display  a  richer  bloom, 
'Twere  bliss  to  gain  such  posies, 

And  taste  their  rich  perfume. 

The  violet's  softest  azure 

Is  swimming  in  her  eye; 
The  rose's  vermeil  treasure 

On  either  cheek  we  spy; 
The  fragrant  pink's  carnation, 

Its  nectar  and  perfume, 
In  sweetest  combination 

Have  dress'd  her  lips  in  bloom. 

And  she  has  learned  to  cherish 

A  never-fading  flower; 
When  pinks  and  roses  perish 

'Twill  still  adorn  her  bower; 
Its  tints  will  never  vary, 

Its  fragrance  ne'er  depart, 
'Twill  always  bloom  with  Mary, 

'Tis  planted  in  her  heart. 


i34 


NEW  YORK  IN  1826 


Address  of  the  carrier  of  the  New  York  Mirror,  on  the  first 
day  of  that  year. 

George  P.  Morris 

Two  years  have  elapsed  since  the  verse  of  S.  W. 

Met  your  bright  eyes  like  a  fanciful  gem; 
With  that  kind  of  stanza  the  muse  will  now  trouble 
you, 

She  often  frolicks  with  one  G.  P.  M. 
As  New  Year  approaches,  she  whispers  of  coaches, 

And  lockets  and  broaches,  without  any  end. 
Of  sweet  rosy  pleasure,  of  joy  without  measure, 

And  plenty  of  leisure  to  share  with  a  friend. 

Tis  useless  to  speak  of  the  gas-light  so  beautiful,1 
Shedding  its  beams  through  "the  mist  of  the  night." 

Eagles  and  tigers  and  elephants,  dutiful, 
Dazzle  the  vision  with  columns  of  light. 

The  lamb  and  the  lion — ask  editor  Tryon, 

His  word  you'll  rely  on — are  seen  near  the  Park, 

From  which  such  lights  flow  out,  as  wind  cannot  blow 
out, 

Yet  often  they  go  out,  and  all's  in  the  dark. 

1  Gas-light  was  introduced  into  New  York  at  this  time  and  the 
gas-burners  were  in  the  shapes  here  mentioned. 

135 


136 


New  York  in  1826 


'Tis  useless  to  speak  of  the  many  civilities 
Shown  to  Fayette  in  this  country  of  late, 

Or  even  to  mention  the  splendid  abilities 
Clinton  possesses  for  ruling  the  state, 

The  Union  of  water  and  Erie's  bright  daughter, 
Since  Neptune  has  caught  her  they'll  sever  no 
more; 

And  Greece  and  her  troubles  (the  rhyme  always 
doubles) 

Have  vanished  like  bubbles  that  burst  on  the 
shore. 


'Tis  useless  to  speak  of  Broadway  and  the  Bowery; 

Both  are  improving  and  growing  so  fast ! 
Who  would  have  thought  that  old  Stuyvesant's 
dowery 

Would  hold  in  its  precincts  a  play-house  at  last ! 
Well,  wonder  ne'er  ceases,  but  daily  increases, 

And  pulling  to  pieces,  the  town  to  renew, 
So  often  engages  the  thoughts  of  our  sages, 

That  when  the  fit  rages  what  will  they  not  do? 

'Tis  useless  to  speak  of  the  want  of  propriety 
In  forming  our  city  so  crooked  and  long; 

Our  ancestors,  bless  them,  were  fond  of  variety — 
'Tis  naughty  to  say  that  they  ever  were  wrong ! 

Tho'  strangers  may  grumble  and  thro'  the  street 
stumble, 

Take  care  they  don't  tumble  through  crevices 
small, 

For  trap-doors  we've  plenty,  on  side-walks  and  entry, 
And  no  one  stands  sentry  to  see  they  don't  fall. 


New  York  in  1826 


137 


'Tis  useless  to  speak  of  the  din  that  so  heavily 

Fell  on  our  senses  as  midnight  drew  near; 
Trumpets  and  bugles  and  conch-shells,  so  cleverly 

Sounded  the  welkin  with  happy  New  Year! 
With  jew's-harps  and  timbrels  and  musical  thimbles, 

Tin  platters  for  cymbals,  and  frying-pans  too; 
Dutch-ovens  and  brasses,  and  jingles  and  glasses, 

With  reeds  of  all  classes,  together  they  blew! 

For  holy-day  pleasure,  why  these  are  the  times  for  it; 

Pardon  me,  then,  for  so  trifling  a  lay ; 
This  stanza  shall  end,  if  I  can  find  rhymes  for  it — 

May  you,  dear  patrons,  be  happy  to-day ! 
Tho'  life  is  so  fleeting,  and  pleasure  so  cheating, 

That  we  are  oft  meeting  with  accidents  here, 
Should  Fate  seek  to  dish  you,  oh  then  may  the  issue 

Be  what  I  now  wish  you — a  Happy  New  Year. 


THEIR  WEDDING  JOURNEY — 1834 


H.   C.  BUNNER 

Dear  Mother, 

When  the  Coach  rolled  off 
From  dear  old  Battery  Place 
I  hid  my  face  within  my  hands — 

That  is,  I  hid  my  face. 
Tom  says  (he's  leaning  over  me!) 

'Twas  on  his  shoulder,  too; 
But,  oh,  I  pray  you  will  believe 
I  wept  to  part  from  You. 

And  when  we  rattled  up  Broadway 

I  wept  to  leave  the  Scene 
Familiar  to  my  happy  Youth 

(I  did  love  Bowling  Green). 
I  wept  at  Slidell's  Chandlery 

To  see  the  smoak  arise — 
'Twas  only  at  the  City  Hall 

Tom  bade  me  wipe  my  Eyes. 

By  Mr.  Niblo's  Garden,  where 
You  would  not  let  me  go, 

We  went,  and  travell'd  up  the  Hill — 
So  fast,  and  yet  so  slow! 

138 


Their  Wedding  Journey  139 


And  so  we  left  behind  the  Town 

And  ere  the  Sun  had  set 
We  reached  the  Inn  at  Tubby  Hook — 

We  have  not  left  it  yet! 

I  know  that  we  are  very  Wrong — 

Dear  Mother,  pray  forgive! 
From  Sun  to  Sun  'tis  all  so  sweet — 

It  seems  so  sweet  to  Live! 
I  know  the  things  we  meant  to  do, 

The  road  we  vowed  to  go, 
But  Tom  and  I  are  here,  and — oh, 

Dear  Mother,  do  you  know? 

We  have  not  gone  to  Uncle  John's, 

Though  Yonkers  is  so  near — 
We  never  shall  see  Cousin  Van 

At  Tarry  town,  I  fear. 
Our  Peekskill  friends,  the  Fishkill  folk, 

And  all  the  waiting  rest — 
Tom  bids  me  tell  you  they  may  wait — 

(He  says  they  may  be  Blest). 

I  know  'tis  ill  to  linger  here 

Hid  in  this  woodland  Inn, 
When  all  along  Queen  Anne's  broad  road 

Await  our  Friends  and  Kin; 
But,  Dear  Mama  (when  I  was  small 

You  let  me  call  you  so), 
'T  is  such  Felicity  and  Joy 

With  Him,  Here!    Do  you  know? 

Your  Isabel. 

P.  S. — Tom  sends  his  love. 
Please  write,  "I  know.'" 


DELICIAE  NOVI  EBORACI,  1839 


Jedediah  Huntington 
1 

With  much  the  soul  that  fetters  and  degrades, 
In  thee,  Manhatta!  yet  are  some  things  seen, 
That  lift  to  joy  and  love  thy  citizen. 
Refreshing  as  a  dream  of  forest  glades, 
Not  seldom  meets  his  eye  whom  business  jades, 
In  the  brick  desert  an  oasis  green. 
St.  Luke's  low  tower  has  yet  its  rural  screen; 
St.  John's  its  thick  and  rose-besprinkled  shades; 
And  many  spots  and  sights  as  fair  there  be. 
But  one  fair  sight  is  prized  above  the  rest; 
Beheld,  when,  loitering  home  at  sun-down,  we 
Have  frequent  glimpses  of  the  crimson  west, 
Tinging  the  woody  shores  and  glittering  breast 
Of  kingly  Hudson  passing  to  the  sea. 

II 

With  step  that  times  the  pulse's  languid  beats, 
Forth  to  the  Battery  at  the  cool  of  day, 
Forth  to  the  wave-washed  Battery  we  stray, 
Glad  to  exchange  the  city's  central  heats, 
And  scorching  pavements  of  unshaded  streets, 
j  40 


Deliciae  Novi  Eboraci 


141 


For  long  and  gravelled  walks,  where  children  play, 
And  the  pure  breeze,  fresh-blowing  from  the  bay, 
Rifles  the  perfumed  bosom  of  its  sweets. 
Thence,  "loitering  home  at  sun-down,"  we  perceive, 
Bright  streaming  up  each  vistaed  street  we  pass, 
A  flush,  from  western  skies  by  purple  eve 
Suffused,  and  from  the  river  smooth  as  glass, 
'Gainst  which,  and  'gainst  the  sky,  a  tangled  mass 
Of  masts  and  spars  their  blackened  lines  relieve. 


THE  PITY  OF  THE  PARK  FOUNTAIN 


Nathaniel  P.  Willis 

'Twas  a  summery  day  in  the  last  of  May — 

Pleasant  in  sun  or  shade ; 
And  the  hours  went  by,  as  the  poets  say, 
Fragrant  and  fair  in  their  flowery  way ; 
And  a  hearse  crept  slowly  through  Broadway — 

And  the  Fountain  gaily  play'd. 

The  Fountain  play'd  right  merrily, 
And  the  world  look'd  bright  and  gay; 

And  a  youth  went  by,  with  a  restless  eye, 

Whose  heart  was  sick  and  whose  brain  was  dry; 

And  he  prayed  to  God  that  he  might  die — 
And  the  Fountain  play'd  away. 

Uprose  the  spray  like  a  diamond  throne, 

And  the  drops  like  music  rang — 
And  of  those  who  marvell'd  how  it  shone, 
Was  a  proud  man,  left,  in  his  shame,  alone; 
And  he  shut  his  teeth  with  a  smother'd  groan — 

And  the  Fountain  sweetly  sang. 

And  a  rainbow  spann'd  it  changefully, 

Like  a  bright  ring  broke  in  twain ; 
And  the  pale,  fair  girl  who  stopp'd  to  see, 
Was  sick  with  the  pangs  of  poverty — 
142 


The  Pity  of  the  Park  Fountain 


And  from  hunger  to  guilt  she  chose  to  flee 
As  the  rainbow  smiled  again. 

With  as  fair  a  ray,  on  another  day, 

The  morning  will  have  shone; 
And  as  little  mark'd,  in  bright  Broadway, 
A  hearse  will  glide  among  busy  and  gay, 
And  the  bard  who  sings  will  have  pass'd  away- 
And  the  Fountain  will  play  on ! 


UNSEEN  SPIRITS 


Nathaniel   P.  Willis 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway, 
'Twas  near  the  twilight-tide — 

And  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 
Was  walking  in  her  pride. 

Alone  walk'd  she;  but,  viewlessly, 
Walked  spirits  at  her  side. 

Peace  charmed  the  street  beneath  her  feet, 
And  Honour  charmed  the  air; 

And  all  astir  looked  kind  on  her, 
And  call'd  her  good  as  fair — 

For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her, 
She  kept  with  chary  care. 

She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rare 
From  lovers  warm  and  true — 

For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold, 
And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo — 

But  honour'd  well  are  charms  to  sell 
If  priests  the  selling  do. 

Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair — 

A  slight  girl,  lily-pale; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 
144 


Unseen  Spirits 

To  make  the  spirit  quail — 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walk'd  forlorn, 
And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 
For  this  world's  peace  to  pray; 

For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air, 
Her  woman's  heart  gave  way ! — 

But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  heaven 
By  man  is  cursed  alway! 


FIVE  POINTS,  1838 
Laughton  Osborn 

Fast  by  the  dike,  where  frown  the  granite  eaves 
Of  the  huge  dome  Manhattan  rears  for  thieves, 
A  range  of  filthy  dwelling  houses  stood, 
Fac'd  with  dull  brick,  and  bridg'd  with  steps  of  wood. 
Here,  in  chalk'd  spaces,  seven  feet  by  four, 
Crowd  various  families  a  common  floor; 
The  night's  straw  sack  their  musty  couch  by  day, 
While  on  the  loathsome  plank  their  broken  victuals 
lay. 

Dogs,  cats,  and  children  in  one  litter  cry, 
And  mud-cak'd  pigs  encroach  upon  the  sty. 
Without,  all  wreck  and  nastiness;  within, 
Starvation,  sickness,  vermin,  stench,  and  sin. 
Such  hives  as  still  are  found,  with  ev'n  less  room, 
In  Laurens  Street,  the  southern  side  of  Broom. 


146 


FANNY  ELSSLER,  1840 


The  clock  has  struck,  we  mean  St.  Paul's — 
And  hark!  there  goes  the  City  Hall's; 
'Tis  noon,  a  sunny  noon  in  May, 

The  park  is  cloth'd  in  early  green, 
While  beauty,  floating  through  Broadway, 

In  dyes  of  ev'ry  shade  is  seen ! 
Upon  the  lofty  steps  behold, 

Of  the  "American"  or  "Astor,  " 
Groups  of  the  gallant  and  the  bold — 
Mustached  and  strapp'd,  of  fashion's  mould; 

Their  glances  after  beauty  cast,  or 
As  often  turned  themselves  to  view, 
A  set  of  precious  beauties  too, 

From  boot  to  castor! 
The  'Busses  roll  by  dozens  by, 

The  cabs,  and  hacks,  half  crazy,  rattle; 
The  private  carriage  solemnly 

Glides  on  in  dignity  of  cattle; 
The  City  Hall,  too,  loftily, 
Above  the  trees  is  soaring;  see! 
A  glow  upon  its  marble  face, 
Gives  it  a  sort  of  modest  grace, 
As  though  it  blush 'd  for  its  inferior 
And  unillumined  brown  posterior! 
While  Justice,  perched  high  in  air, 
i47 


148 


Fanny  Elssler 


And  smiling  in  the  pleasant  ray, 
Seems  just  as  light  of  conscience  there, 
As  if  it  were  not  "sentence  day. " 

Three  hours — it  lacks  three  hours  of  dark — 

What  murmur  rises  on  the  air — 
The  sound  of  many  voices — hark ! 

And  from  the  Astor  steps,  look  there! 
That  crowd  investing  the  old  "Park," 

As  if  half  mad  they  were! 
And  Blake  has  had  a  busy  time, 

The  "first  tier"  gone,  the  boxes  private; 
The  "second,"  "third,"  yet  rings  the  chime 

Most  welcome — "places"  still  they  strive  at. 
And  now  the  rosy  day  descends — 

The  Jersey  flats,  the  bay,  and  islands 
Are  bathed  in  the  rich  light  it  lends; 

Weehawken  too,  and  Brooklyn  highlands; 
And,  lingering,  thy  lofty  spire 
And  ball,  St.  Paul's,  are  wreathed  in  fire — 
The  longing  glances  of  the  Sun, 
That  thence,  "Old  Drury"  look  upon! 
But,  "La  Deesse,"  thy  hour  is  night, 
By  magic  made  than  day  more  bright; 
Go,  lagging  beams,  the  struggle  vain, 
Resplendent  gas  usurps  thy  reign. 

Too  eager  fool !  we  find  ourselves 

Scrouged  in  a  corner  of  the  pit ; 
While  carried  out  by  tens  and  twelves 

The  fainting  fair  the  boxes  quit. 
The  overture! — oh,  agony 

Of  pressure  and  of  expectation; 
Hats  off — sit  down — get  up — dear  me ! 


Fanny  Elssler 

Toes — elbows — struggle — suffocation ; 
The  orchestra's  invaded,  and 

The  stage  behold  them  now  a-cramming; 
While,  louder  than  the  music  band, 

Is  heard  remonstrance,  prayer  and  d — g! 
But  what  is  this  which  stills  the  roar, 
Which  bids  the  groaning  groan  no  more; 
Which,  like  an  angel's  glance  below 
Into  the  murky  pits  of  woe 
Bids  sound  of  sin  and  blasphemy 

Subside  into  an  anxious  hope 
That  one  so  rare  and  heavenly 

Hath  come  the  fatal  gates  to  ope! 
What  is  it?    La  Deesse!  'tis  she! 

As  ne'er  before,  she  smileth  now, 
An  angel  promise  certainly, 

And  she  hath  still 'd  the  row! 
An  airy,  fairy  winged  thing ! 
With  drapery,  untaught  to  fling 

A  veil  o'er  aught  so  bright,  so  fair: 
A  film,  made  of  imagining, 

She  seems  to  wear ! 
As  faintly  floating  round  the  moon. 
By  poet  seen  at  starry  noon, 
Or  silv'ry  mist,  a  shifting  sheen. 
Frenzy  and  love  each  change  between, 

Is  seen! 
In  mazy  beauty  only  clad, 
She  moves — we're  mad! 


CITY  LYRICS 


Argument:  The  poet  starts  from  the  Bowling  Green  to  take 
his  sweetheart  up  to  Thompson's  for  an  ice,  or  (if  she  is  inclined 
for  more)  ices.  He  confines  his  muse  to  matters  which  an  every- 
day man  and  young  woman  may  see  in  taking  the  same  pro- 
menade for  the  same  innocent  refreshment. 

Nathaniel  P.  Willis 

Come  out,  love — the  night  is  enchanting! 

The  moon  hangs  just  over  Broadway, 
The  stars  are  all  lighted  and  panting — 

(Hot  weather  up  there,  I  dare  say!) 
'Tis  seldom  that  "coolness"  entices, 

And  love  is  no  better  for  chilling — 
But  come  up  to  Thompson's  for  ices, 

And  cool  your  warm  heart  for  a  shilling ! 

What  perfumes  come  balmily  o'er  us? 

Mint  juleps  from  City  Hotel ! 
A  loafer. is  smoking  before  us — 

(A  nasty  cigar,  by  the  smell !) 
Oh  Woman!  thou  secret  past  knowing! 

Like  lilachs  that  grow  by  the  wall, 
You  breathe  every  air  that  is  going, 

Yet  gather  but  sweetness  from  all! 

On,  on!  by  St.  Paul's  and  the  Astor! 
Religion  seems  very  ill-plann'd, 
150 


City  Lyrics 


For  one  day  we  list  to  the  pastor, 
For  six  days  we  list  to  the  band! 

The  sermon  may  dwell  on  the  future, 
The  organ  your  pulses  may  calm — 

When — pest ! — that  remembered  cachucha 
Upsets  both  the  sermon  and  psalm! 

Oh,  pity  the  love  that  must  utter 

While  goes  a  swift  omnibus  by! 
(Though  sweet  is  ice-cream  when  the  flutter 

Of  fans  shows  thermometers  high) — 
But  if  what  I  bawl,  or  I  mutter, 

Falls  into  your  ear  but  to  die, 
Oh,  the  dew  that  falls  into  the  gutter 

Is  not  more  unhappy  than  I ! 


THE  CROTON  ODE 


Written  at  the  request  of  the  Corporation  of  the  City  of  New 
York  and  sung  near  the  Park  Fountain  by  the  members  of  the 
New  York  Sacred  Music  Society,  on  the  completion  of  the  Croton 
Aqueduct,  celebrated  October  14,  1842. 

George  P.  Morris 

Gushing  from  this  living  fountain, 

Music  pours  a  falling  strain, 
As  the  goddess  of  the  mountain 

Comes  with  all  her  sparkling  train. 
From  her  grotto-springs  advancing, 

Glittering  in  her  feathery  spray, 
Woodland  fays  beside  her  dancing, 

She  pursues  her  winding  way. 

Gently  o'er  the  rippling  water, 

In  her  coral-shallop  bright, 
Glides  the  rock-king's  dove-eyed  daughter, 

Decked  in  robes  of  virgin  white. 
Nymphs  and  naiads,  sweetly  smiling, 

Urge  her  back  with  pearly  hand, 
Merrily  the  sylph  beguiling 

From  the  nooks  of  fairy  land. 

Round  the  aqueducts  of  story, 
As  the  mists  of  Lethe"  throng, 
152 


The  Croton  Ode 


Croton's  waves  in  all  her  glory 

Troop  in  melody  along. 
Ever  sparkling,  bright,  and  single, 

Will  this  rock-ribbed  stream  appear, 
When  posterity  shall  mingle 

Like  the  gathered  waters  here. 


TO  THE  LADY  IN  THE    CHEMISETTE  WITH 
BLACK  BUTTONS 

Nathanifx  P.  Willis 

I  know  not  who  thou  art,  oh  lovely  one! 

Thine  eyes  were  droop'd,  thy  lips  half  sorrowful — 

Yet  thou  didst  eloquently  smile  on  me 

While  handing  up  thy  sixpence  through  the  hole 

Of  that  o'er-freighted  omnibus!    Ah  me! 

The  world  is  full  of  meetings  such  as  this— 

A  thrill,  a  voiceless  challenge  and  reply — 

And  sudden  partings  after !    We  may  pass, 

And  know  not  of  each  other's  nearness  now — 

Thou  in  the  Knickerbocker  Line,  and  I, 

Lone,  in  the  Waverley!    Oh,  life  of  pain! 

And  even  should  I  pass  where  thou  dost  dwell — 

Nay — see  thee  in  the  basement  taking  tea — 

So  cold  is  this  inexorable  world, 

I  must  glide  on !    I  dare  not  feast  mine  eye ! 

I  dare  not  make  articulate  my  love, 

Nor  o'er  the  iron  rails  that  hem  thee  in 

Venture  to  fling  to  thee  my  innocent  card — 

Not  knowing  thy  papa ! 

Hast  thou  papa? 
Is  thy  progenitor  alive,  fair  girl? 
And  what  doth  he  for  lucre?    Lo  again! 

154 


To  the  Lady  in  the  Chemisette  i 

A  shadow  o'er  the  face  of  this  fair  dream! 

For  thou  mayst  be  as  beautiful  as  Love 

Can  make  thee,  and  the  ministering  hands 

Of  milliners,  incapable  of  more, 

Be  lifted  at  thy  shapeliness  and  air, 

And  still  'twixt  me  and  thee,  invisibly, 

May  rise  a  wall  of  adamant.    My  breath 

Upon  my  pale  lip  freezes  as  I  name 

Manhattan's  orient  verge,  and  eke  the  west 

In  its  far  down  extremity.    Thy  sire 

May  be  the  signer  of  a  temperance  pledge, 

And  clad  all  decently  may  walk  the  earth — 

Nay — may  be  numbered  with  that  blessed  few 

Who  never  ask  for  discount — yet,  alas! 

If,  homeward  wending  from  his  daily  cares, 

He  go  by  Murphy's  Line,  thence  eastward  tending- 

Or  westward  from  the  Line  of  Kipp  &  Brown, — 

My  vision  is  departed !    Harshly  falls 

The  doom  upon  the  ear,  "She's  not  genteel!,, 

And  pitiless  is  woman  who  doth  keep 

Of  "good  society"  the  golden  key! 

And  gentlemen  are  bound,  as  are  the  stars, 

To  stoop  not  after  rising! 

But  farewell, 
And  I  shall  look  for  thee  in  streets  where  dwell 
The  passengers  by  Broadway  Lines  alone! 
And  if  my  dreams  be  true,  and  thou,  indeed, 
Art  only  not  more  lovely  than  genteel — 
Then,  lady  of  the  snow-white  chemisette, 
The  heart  which  vent'rously  crossed  o'er  to  thee 
Upon  that  bridge  of  sixpence  may  remain — 
And,  with  up-town  devotedness  and  truth, 
My  love  shall  hover  round  theei 


THE  CITY,  1850. 


John  G.  Saxe 

I  love  the  city,  and  the  city's  smoke; 
The  smell  of  gas;  the  dust  of  coal  and  coke; 
The  sound  of  bells,  the  tramp  of  hurrying  feet ; 
The  sight  of  pigs  and  Paphians  in  the  street; 
The  jostling  crowd,  the  never-ceasing  noise 
Of  rattling  coaches,  and  vociferous  boys ; 
The  cry  of  Fire  and  the  exciting  scene 
Of  heroes  running  with  their  mad  "mersheen"; 
Nay,  now  I  think  that  I  could  even  stand 
The  direful  din  of  Barnum's  brazen  band, 
So  much  I  long  to  see  the  town  again ! 
Good-bye!    I'm  going  by  the  evening  train! 


156 


SPRING  IN  TOWN 


William  Cullen  Bryant 

The  country  ever  has  a  lagging  Spring, 
Waiting  for  May  to  call  its  violets  forth, 

And  June  its  roses — showers  and  sunshine  bring, 
Slowly,  the  deeping  verdure  o'er  the  earth; 

To  put  their  foliage  out,  the  woods  are  slack, 

And  one  by  one  the  singing-birds  come  back. 

Within  the  city's  bounds  the  time  of  flowers 
Comes  earlier.    Let  a  mild  and  sunny  day, 

Such  as  full  often,  for  a  few  bright  hours, 

Breathes  through  the  sky  of  March  the  airs  of 
May, 

Shine  on  our  roofs  and  chase  the  wintry  gloom — 
And  lo!  our  borders  glow  with  sudden  bloom. 

For  the  wide  sidewalks  of  Broadway  are  then 
Gorgeous  as  are  a  rivulet's  banks  in  June, 

That  overhung  with  blossoms,  through  its  glen, 
Slides  soft  away  beneath  the  sunny  noon, 

And  they  who  search  the  untrodden  wood  for  flowers 

Meet  in  its  depths  no  lovelier  ones  than  ours. 

For  here  are  eyes  that  shame  the  violet, 
Or  the  dark  drop  that  on  the  pansy  lies, 
i57 


158 


Spring  in  Town 


And  foreheads,  white,  as  when  in  clusters  set, 

The  anemones  by  forest  mountains  rise; 
And  the  spring-beauty  boasts  no  tenderer  streak 
Than  the  soft  red  on  many  a  youthful  cheek. 

And  thick  about  those  lovely  temples  lie 

Locks  that  the  lucky  Vignardonne  has  curled, 

Thrice  happy  man !  whose  trade  it  is  to  buy, 

And  bake,  and  braid  those  love-knots  of  the  world; 

Who  curls  of  every  glossy  colour  keepest, 

And  sellest,  it  is  said,  the  blackest  cheapest. 

And  well  thou  mayst — for  Italy's  brown  maids 

Send  the  dark  locks  with  which  their  brows  are 
dressed, 

And  Gascon  lasses,  from  their  jetty  braids, 

Crop  half,  to  buy  a  riband  for  the  rest ; 
But  the  fresh  Norman  girls  their  tresses  spare, 
And  the  Dutch  damsel  keeps  her  flaxen  hair. 

Then,  henceforth,  let  no  maid  nor  matron  grieve, 

To  see  her  locks  of  an  unlovely  hue, 
Frouzy  or  thin,  for  liberal  art  shall  give 

Such  piles  of  curls  as  nature  never  knew. 
Eve  with  her  veil  of  tresses,  at  the  sight 
Had  blushed,  outdone,  and  owned  herself  a  fright. 

Soft  voices  and  light  laughter  wake  the  street, 

Like  notes  of  woodbirds,  and  where'er  the  eye 
Threads  the  long  way,  plumes  wave,  and  twinkling 
feet 

Fall  light,  as  hastes  that  crowd  of  beauty  by. 
The  ostrich,  hurrying  o'er  the  desert  space, 
Scarce  bore  those  tossing  plumes  with  fleeter  pace. 


Spring  in  Town 

No  swimming  Juno  gait,  of  languor  born, 
Is  theirs,  but  a  light  step  of  freest  grace, 

Light  as  Camilla's  o'er  the  unbent  corn; — 
A  step  that  speaks  the  spirit  of  the  place, 

Since  Quiet,  meek  old  dame,  was  driven  away 

To  Sing  Sing  and  the  shores  of  Tappan  bay. 

Ye  that  dash  by  in  chariots !  who  will  care 
For  steeds  or  footmen  now?  ye  cannot  show 

Fair  face,  and  dazzling  dress,  and  graceful  air, 
And  last  edition  of  the  shape!    Ah,  no, 

These  sights  are  for  the  earth  and  open  sky, 

And  your  loud  wheels  unheeded  rattle  by. 


HYMN  OF  THE  CITY 


William  Cullen  Bryant 

Not  in  the  solitude 
Alone  may  man  commune  with  heaven,  or  see, 

Only  in  savage  wood 
And  sunny  vale,  the  present  Deity ; 

Or  only  hear  His  voice 
Where  the  winds  whisper  and  the  waves  rejoice. 

Even  here  do  I  behold 
Thy  steps,  Almighty ! — here,  amidst  the  crowd, 

Through  the  great  city  rolled, 
With  everlasting  murmur  deep  and  loud — 

Choking  the  ways  that  wind 
'Mongst  the  proud  piles,  the  work  of  human  kind. 

Thy  golden  sunshine  comes 
From  the  round  heaven,  and  on  their  dwellings  lies, 

And  lights  their  inner  homes; 
For  them  thou  fill'st  with  air  the  unbounded  skies, 

And  givest  them  the  stores 
Of  ocean,  and  the  harvests  of  its  shores. 

Thy  spirit  is  around, 
Quickening  the  restless  mass  that  sweeps  along; 

And  this  eternal  sound — 
Voices  and  footfalls  of  the  numberless  throng — 

1 60 


Hymn  of  the  City 

Like  the  resounding  sea, 
Or  like  the  rainy  tempest,  speaks  of  thee. 

And  when  the  hours  of  rest 
Come,  like  a  calm  upon  the  mid-sea  brine, 

Hushing  its  billowy  breast — 
The  quiet  of  that  moment  too  is  thine; 

It  breathes  of  Him  who  keeps 
The  vast  and  helpless  city  while  it  sleeps. 


THE  DOG-STAR  RAGES,  1850 


George  P.  Morris 

Unseal  the  city  fountains, 

And  let  the  waters  flow 
In  coolness  from  the  mountains 

Unto  the  plains  below. 
My  brain  is  parched  and  erring, 

The-  pavement  hot  and  dry, 
And  not  a  breath  is  stirring 

Beneath  the  burning  sky. 

The  belles  have  all  departed — 

There  does  not  linger  one! 
Of  course  the  mart's  deserted 

By  every  mother's  son. 
Except  the  street  musician, 

And  men  of  lesser  note, 
Whose  only  earthly  mission 

Seems  but  to  toil  and  vote! 

A  woman — blessings  on  her ! — 
Beneath  my  window  see; 

She's  singing — what  an  honour! — 
Oh!  "Woodman,  spare  that  tree 

Her  "man"  the  air  is  killing — 
His  organ's  out  of  tune — 


The  Dog-Star  Rages 


They're  gone  with  my  last  shilling, 
To  Florence's  saloon. 

New  York  is  most  compactly 

Of  brick  and  mortar  made — 
Thermometer  exactly 

One  hundred  in  the  shade! 
A  furnace  would  be  safer 

Than  this  my  letter-room, 
Where  gleams  the  sun,  a  wafer 

About  to  seal  my  doom. 

The  town  looks  like  an  ogre, 

The  country  like  a  bride; 
Wealth  hies  to  Saratoga 

And  Worth  to  Sunny-Side. 
While  fashion  seeks  the  islands 

Encircled  by  the  sea, 
Taste  finds  the  Hudson  Highlands 

More  beautiful  and  free. 

The  omnibuses  rumble 

Along  their  cobbled  way — 
The  "twelve  inside"  more  humble 

Than  he  who  takes  the  pay. 
From  morn  to  midnight  stealing, 

His  horses  come  and  go — 
The  only  creatures  feeling 

The  ' '  luxury  of  woe ! ' ' 

A  stillness  and  a  sadness 

Pervade  the  City  Hall, 
And  speculating  madness 

Has  left  the  street  of  Wall. 


The  Dog-Star  Rages 


The  Union  Square  looks  really 

Both  desolate  and  dark, 
And  that's  the  case,  or  nearly, 

From  Battery  to  Park. 

Had  I  a  yacht  like  Miller, 

That  skimmer  of  the  seas — 
A  wheel  rigged  like  a  tiller, 

And  a  fresh  gunwale  breeze, 
A  crew  of  friends  well  chosen, 

And  all  a-tauto,  I 
Would  sail  for  regions  frozen — 

I'd  rather  freeze  than  fry. 

I'm  weeping  like  the  willow 

That  droops  in  leaf  and  bough — 
Let  Croton's  sparkling  billow 

Flow  through  the  city  now; 
And,  as  becomes  her  station, 

The  muse  will  close  her  prayer; 
God  save  the  Corporation ! 

Long  live  the  valiant  Mayor ! 


EMPORIUM  VERSUS  NEW  YORK,  1854 


Jacob  Bigelow 

With  head  erect  and  stately  stride, 
In  Broadway,  on  the  western  side, 
I  marched,  and  viewed,  in  conscious  pride, 
The  splendours  of  New  York. 

What  gorgeous  domes  confront  the  sky, 
What  proud  hotels  are  soaring  high, 
What  windows  lure  the  passers  by, 
The  strangers  in  New  York! 

All  gems  are  there  in  sparkling  showers, 
All  trophies  of  barbaric  powers, 
And  fabrics  wrought  for  princely  dowers, 
Are  gathered  in  New  York. 

And  pilgrims  press  with  eager  feet, 
And  curious  eyes  with  wonders  meet 
In  Broadway's  world-surpassing  street, 
The  glory  of  New  York. 

Tall  ships  are  in  from  many  a  shore, 
And  streets  and  shops  are  running  o'er, 
And  lumbering  drays  can  hold  no  more 
The  transport  of  New  York. 

165 


Emporium  versus  New  York 


I  tried  in  vain  to  cross  the  street, 
Where  whirling  wheels  cut  off  retreat, 
And  clattering  tramp  of  horses'  feet 
Announced  the  great  New  York. 

I  gazed  upon  the  motley  throng; 
The  ceaseless  current  surged  along, 
And  sinewy  legs  and  elbows  strong 
Went  struggling  through  New  York. 

Saxons  and  Celts,  and  Greeks  and  Jews, 
Creoles,  Italians  and  Hindoos, 
Germans  and  Franks  and  Kickapoos, 
All  crowded  in  New  York. 

I  looked  ahead  and  read  the  fates, 
I  scanned  the  rise  and  fall  of  states, 
And  saw  the  destiny  that  waits 
The  future  of  New  York. 

Not  fifty  years  shall  pass  when  she, 
Whose  commerce  floats  on  every  sea, 
The  world's  first  banking-place  shall  be, 
Though  then  no  more  "New  York." 

Indignant  voices  shall  proclaim, 
That  she,  the  first  in  wealth  and  fame, 
No  more  shall  wear  the  paltry  name 
Of  pitiful  "New  York." 

When  old  ^Eneas  and  his  boy 
From  the  mast-head  cried  "  Rome,  ahoy 
They  did  not  call  the  place  New  Troy, 
Like  fools  that  named  New  York. 


Emporium  versus  New  York 

When  Moses  led  his  wandering  Jews 
To  bathe  their  feet  in  Canaan's  dews, 
They  proved  too  wise  to  name  and  use 
New  Egypt,  like  New  York. 

New  Amsterdam,  might  fit  the  Dutch; 
But  when  the  English  got  their  clutch, 
Why  need  they  coin  another  such 
And  dub  the  town  "New  York"? 

I  summon  poets,  one  and  all, 
Who  help  to  spin  this  mundane  ball, 
To  rescue  from  degrading  thrall 
The  trodden-down  New  York. 

I  call  on  patriots,  fierce  or  tame, 
To  wipe  away  this  burning  shame, 
And  kick  down  hill,  with  one  acclaim, 
Detestable  "New  York." 

Vast  continents  have  changed  their  name; 
Cities  and  ladies  do  the  same, 
A  part  for  pride  and  part  for  shame, 
Both  which  should  move  New  York. 

New  Holland  is  Australia  now; 
Toronto  made  one  "York"  to  bow; 
The  late  Miss  Smith  is  Mrs.  Howe; 
Why  don't  you  change  New  York? 

A  generous  name  sounds  well  in  verse, 
A  bad  one  is  a  clinging  curse; 
I  never  heard  nor  dreamt  a  worse 
Than  pestilent  "New  York." 


Emporium  versus  New  York 

I  ask  a  bold,  descriptive  name, 
Of  classic  birth  and  faultless  claim, 
To  grow  amid  the  growing  fame 
Of  what  was  once  New  York. 

Emporium  shall  that  title  be, 
The  empire  mart  of  earth  and  sea, 
The  central  city  of  the  free; 
EMPORIUM,— not  New  York! 


THE  WEDDED  FLAGS 


A  song  of  the  Atlantic  Cable,  August  16,  1858. 

George  Washington  Doane,  D.D. 

Hang  out  that  glorious  old  red  cross ! 

Hang  out  the  stripes  and  stars ! 
They  faced  each  other  fearlessly 

In  two  historic  wars. 

But  now  the  ocean  circlet  binds 
The  bridegroom  and  the  bride: 

Old  England,  young  America — 
Display  them,  side  by  side. 

High  up,  from  Trinity's  tall  spire, 

We'll  fling  the  banners  out; 
Hear  how  the  world-wide  welkin  rings 

With  that  exulting  shout. 

Was  ever  sign  so  beautiful, 

Hung  from  the  heavens,  abroad? 

Old  England,  young  America 
For  freedom,  and  for  God ! 


169 


THE  PRINCE'S  BALL,  i860 


Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

O,  haven't  you  heard  how  an  English  Prince,  prince, 
prince, 

A  genuine  royal  scion — 
How  an  English  Prince,  not  three  months  since, 
Came  sailing,  singing,  dancing  along, 
His  true  American  friends  among? 
To  him  I  dedicate  this  song, 

By  leave  of  the  British  Lion. 

Maidens  were  saying,  long  before 

He  came  in  sight  of  a  Yankee  shore, 

That  all  the  princes  of  fairy  rhyme, 

Voyaging  "once  upon  a  time, " 

Never  compared  with  this  island  Prince; 

His  lips  were  sweeter  than  sugared  quince; 

His  locks  as  brown 

As  Prince  Charming's  own; 

When  he  spoke,  his  tone 
Was  nice  to  be  heard,  as  that  of  the  bird, 
To  which  Prince  Ruby  was  cruelly  turned 
By  the  spell  his  magical  rival  learned. 

For  the  honour  and  commerce  of  the  city, 

170 


The  Prince's  Ball 


171 


'Twas  plain  to  see  there  must  be  a  Committee! 
So  men  of  means  and  might  were  chosen, 
Score  by  score  and  dozen  by  dozen, 
In  all,  four  hundred  noble  names, 

With  General  Scott  to  lead  them: 
So  great  their  fortunes  and  their  fames, 

That  when  the  Aldermen  came  to  read  them, 
They  blessed  their  luminaries  stellar 
And  hid,  abashed,  in  the  City  Hall  cellar. 

In  fine,  so  stylish  and  wealthy  a  set 
Were  never  gathered  together  yet — 

Full  of  bankers,  clubmen,  and  scholars; 
A  Herald  reporter,  who  knows  how  to  count, 
Added  up  their  estate  to  the  gross  amount 

Of  Two  Hundred  Million  Dollars! 
Birds  of  a  feather,  they  came  together, 

To  hold  a  primal  caucus! 
It  don't  appear  in  what  mystic  hall 
They  met,  or  whether  in  daylight  at  all; 

Perhaps  in  the  shades  of  Orcus 
Wherever  it  was,  the  question  arose — 
"  How  do  members  to  honour  the  Prince  propose?  " 

Some  wanted  a  Dinner,  and  midnight  speeches 
Along  with  the  wine  and  brandy-peaches; 
Others  on  having  a  Ball  insisted, 
Which  proposition  the  first  resisted, 
Till  quite  a  dignified  contest  was  raging; 
But,  while  gentlemen  fiercely  the  battle  were  waging, 
One  member,  most  potent  and  wealthy,  began 
To  speak  up  for  the  Terpsichorean  plan; 
For  he  thought,  if  "Lord  Renfrew"  himself  were  to 
choose, 


172 


The  Prince's  Ball 


A  Ball  would  exactly  accord  with  his  views; 
That  very  accomplished  and  noble  young  man 
Could  ride,  sing,  and  shoot,  and,  if  need  be,  eat, 
In  a  manner  that  others  found  hard  to  beat. 
But  none  of  these  arts 
Made  him  Prince  of  Hearts, 

So  much  as  his  talent  for  dancing; 
Of  all  the  Princes  under  the  sun, 
There  surely  never  was  such  an  one 

For  frolicking  and  romancing! 


Then  from  their  sofas  uprose  ten 
Very  wealthy  and  righteous  men, 

With  consciences  sorely  troubled: 
"They'd  dance  if  they  must,  but  if  they  could  call 
The  thing  a  Reception,  instead  of  a  Ball, 

They'd  see  their  subscriptions  doubled." 
Four  were  Presbyterians  blue; 
High-Church  Episcopalians  two; 
Low-Church  Episcopalian  one; 
Broad-Church  Unitarian,  none; 
Three  were  Baptists,  open  and  close: 

All  pillars  in  firm  position. 
For  two,  the  Ball  was  too  much  of  a  dose; 
But  the  eight  resolved,  with  one  accord, 
That,  as  David  danced  before  the  Lord, 
They'd  foot  it  once  for  the  royal  nonce, 

Despite  the  risk  of  perdition; 
Yet,  the  better  to  wash  the  sin  away, 
Each  secretly  vowed  to  shortly  pay 
Very  much  more  than  ever  before 

To  the  Afghanistan  mission. 
Thereupon  the  Committee  voted,  all, 


The  Prince's  Ball 


i 


That  My  Lord  should  have  an  Academy  Ball. 

Passing  the  Quaker  City's  gates, 
My  Lord  has  left  the  United  States 

To  cross  the  Jersey  peninsula; 
Has  slept  once  more  on  American  shore: 
Ridden  from  Castle  Garden,  through 
Three  miles  of  flags — red,  white,  and  blue, 

Walls  of  marble,  iron,  and  brick — 

Roofs  and  balconies,  noisily  thick 
With  thousands  sprawling  after  a  view, 
'Till  he's  lodged  on  the  handsomest  Avenue 

Of  the  greatest  of  cities  insular. 

But  now,  as  October  Twelfth  drew  near, 
What  hurry  and  bustle,  joy  and  fear; 
Jealous  hatred  of  those  to  appear, 
By  those  whose  hopes  were  blasted  and  sere; 
As  if  all  the  life  of  a  hemisphere 

Were  mingled  in  hocus-pocus, 
And,  through  Vanity's  lenses  flashing  hot, 
Made  the  Empire  City  a  radiant  spot, 

With  Irving  Place  for  its  focus ! 
What  costume-trying  in  visits  flying: 
Days  of  dress-and- jewelry  buying! 
A  hundred  mantua-makers  were  dying 
Of  sheer  exhaustion,  and  half  a  score 
Exchanged  the  smiles  they  usually  wore 

For  a  reckless  inurbanity; 
While  every  tailor,  from  Fulton  to  Bond, 
Declared  himself  in  the  Slough  of  Despond, 
And  solemnly  swore  that  one  order  more 

Would  drive  him  into  insanity. 


174 


The  Prince's  Ball 


What  scintillant  splendours  found  display, 
In  mirrored  windows  along  Broadway ! 
By  the  "  Vanderbilt "  they  sent,  in  advance, 
For  jewels  of  Florence  and  silks  of  France. 
Homeward  she  paddled,  deeply  laden, 
With  stuffs  to  make  a  Manhattan  maiden 

A  princess,  minus  the  dowry; 
To  make  a  matron  of  forty  years, 
As  fine  as  a  Dowager  Duchess  appears 

In  a  spectacle-play,  at  the  Bowery. 
No  lady-shopper  could  ever  escape 
From  the  robes  of  every  fabric  and  shape — 
Satins,  taffetas,  gauzes,  crape; 
Skirts  of  tulle  embroidered  with  gold; 
Watered  silks  in  waves  unrolled; 
Heaviest  textures,  marvellous  hues, 
Ashes  of  Roses,  buffs  and  blues; 
Gros  des  Indies  and  rich  brocade, 
In  lustrous  folds  and  colours  arrayed; 
Dark  Moirees,  with  silver  garniture, 

Light  Moirees,  brilliant  with  gold  and  cherry — 
Fabrics  costly  enough,  I'm  sure, 

A  queen  to  wed,  or  even  to  bury; 
Chant  illy  laces,  Valenciennes; 
Ribbons  woven  by  Lyons  men; 
Fancy  fans,  with  flower  and  feather, 
Lavishly  piled  in  heaps  together; — 
What  can  compare  with  sights  so  rare, 
Save  the  Paris  booth  in  Vanity  Fair ! 

But  the  world  turns  over  and  over  again, 
With  cloud  and  sunshine,  wind  and  rain, 

Love  and  envy  and  rancour, 
At  last  It  has  come!  the  crowning  night; 


The  Prince's  Ball 


i 


The  ultimatum  of  all  delight ; 
The  hour,  when  even  an  anchorite 

May  be  pardoned  for  weighing  anchor, 
Hoisting  sails,  and  bearing  away 
To  the  rendezvous  in  Prince's  Bay, 

For  which  thousands  vainly  hanker; 
(You  see  it  is  not  the  Committee's  fault 
That  Smith  or  Jones  isn't  worth  his  salt 

Or  wasn't  born  a  banker.) 

It  has  come  at  last !    How  bright  the  sight 
Of  a  Grand-Academy  gala-night ! 
The  blaze  of  the  whirling  calcium  rays 
Lightens  the  spacious  entrance-ways, 
Flashing  on  up-turned,  glaring  faces 
Of  thousands  thronging  about  the  squares : 
Thousands,  to  whom  your  jewels  and  laces 
Are  things  for  which  nobody  this  night  cares. 
For  a  sight  of  the  Prince  the  people  crowd; 
To  your  simple  hearts  should  be  allowed 
A  sight  of  the  Prince,  poor  people !  since 
He  came  to  visit  us  one  and  all, 
Asked  or  not  asked  to  go  to  the  Ball! 
Scores  of  policemen  will  never  convince 
The  crowd  that  it  oughtn't  to  see  the  Prince. 

Up  to  the  porch  the  carriages  rumble, 

By  yellow-plushes  attended; 
No  wonder  the  labouring-men  feel  humble, 

In  the  presence  of  scenes  so  splendid ! 
Never  before,  never  before, 
Such  diamonds  and  dresses  entered  that  door; 

Into  the  radiance  we  glide, 

As  a  bayou-voyager  follows  the  tide, 


i76 


The  Prince's  Ball 


From  mangrove  shadows  and  fallen  trees, 

To  the  silvery  sheen  of  moonlit  seas; 

Into  the  glare  of  countless  lights, 

And  the  wedding  of  sweetest  sounds  and  sights 

Where  gilded  walls  and  tapestried  halls, 

Repeat  the  Music's  dying  falls, 

And  flowers  of  multitudinous  hues, 

Their  blended,  odorous  breaths  diffuse, 

But  through  the  glamour  we  move  along 

To  glance  at  the  guests  that  with  us  throng, 

And  study  the  queer  variety 
It  takes  to  fashion  that  paradox- 
ical edifice,  built  on  golden  "rocks," 

Entitled  "Our  Best  Society." 

Enough,  you  say,  of  polemical  rhyme; 
And  the  ladies  whisper,  'tis  fully  time 

For  the  Prince  to  make  his  appearance; 
"He's  coming ! "    "He  isn't ! "    " Yes,  that  is  h 
And  better  for  him,  to  be  seen  and  to  see, 
If  the  flower  of  our  aristocracy 

Would  give  him  a  better  clearance. 
But  as  Albert  Edward,  young  and  fair, 
Stood  on  the  canopied  dais-stair, 
And  looked,  from  the  circle  crowding  there, 
To  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  outer  scene, 
Perhaps  he  thought  of  his  mother,  the  Queen; 
(Long  may  her  empery  be  serene!) 
But  what  were  his  thoughts  I  can  never  tell, 
For  sharply,  as  belle  was  jostling  belle — 
Each  making  a  Flora-Temple  "burst,  " 
For  the  honour  of  dancing  beside  him  first — 
The  staging  before  him  fell  in  with  a  crash, 


The  Prince's  Ball 


177 


And  fifty  young  ladies,  as  quick  as  a  flash, 
Sank  down  in  a  kind  of  ethereal  hash, 
As  dainty  a  dish  as  a  Prince  could  wish; 

But  he  passed  to  the  supper-pavilion, 
And  we  saw  him  no  more,  till  they  mended  the  floor, 

And  opened  the  primal  cotillion. 
There,  gracefully  dancing  with  Mrs.  Morgan, 

He  had  quite  forgotten  his  thoughts,  I  suppose, 

Just  as  hearers  a  sermon  forget,  at  its  close — 
When  the  "Jubilate"  is  played  on  the  organ; 

Whatever  his  fancies  were,  nobody  knows. 

Now,  how  strange  the  feeling  that  comes  to  one, 

When  the  royal  Show  is  almost  done, 

When  the  gas  for  hours  has  dazzled  the  eye, 

And  the  air  grows  dense  as  the  flowers  die ! 

How  strange  to  go  out,  from  the  crowded  rout, 

To  the  open  street,  where  to  all  is  given 

A  sight  of  the  clear  and  infinite  Heaven, 

Out  into  the  cool  October  night, 

Where,  in  place  of  that  garish  inner  light, 

Are  all  those  silvery  cressets,  fed 

With  rays  from  God's  own  glory  shed. 

Ah !  if  one  now  might  only  flee 

Across  that  measureless,  lucid  sea, 

To  lustres — 0,  how  pure  and  far! — 

What,  from  the  spirit's  chosen  star, 

Would  all  this  glittering  turmoil  seem, 

Save  the  fantasy  of  an  earthly  dream? 

And  even  the  Man  who  lives  in  the  Moon — 
(You'd  reach  him  a  million  times  as  soon !) 
Who,  day  after  day,  sees  the  whole  round  world 
Like  a  map  to  his  curious  gaze  unfurled — 
12 


178 


The  Prince's  Ball 


Would  perceive  no  increase  in  the  polarized  ray 

Thrown  of!  from  this  part  of  our  sphere, 
Though  the  roof  of  the  Opera  House  were  away, 

And  the  lights  that  illuminate  each  tier — 
And  all  the  lamps  that  make  Paris,  they  say, 
And  London,  as  cheerful  by  night  as  by  day, 
With  all  in  New  York,  together  were  burning; 
To  the  Man  in  the  Moon  they'd  be  past  all  discern- 
ing; 

So  there's  one  man,  at  least,  will  know  nothing  at 
all 

Of  the  splendour  and  fame  of  The  Prince's  Ball ! 


FIRvST  O  SONGS  FOR  A  PRELUDE 


Walt  Whitman 
First  O  songs  for  a  prelude, 

Lightly  strike  on  the  stretch'd  tympanum  pride  and 

joy  in  my  city, 
How  she  led  the  rest  to  arms,  how  she  gave  the  cue, 
How  at  once  with  lithe  limbs  unwaiting  a  moment  she 

sprang, 

(O  superb !  0  Manhattan,  my  own,  my  peerless ! 

O  strongest  you  in  the  hour  of  danger,  in  crisis!  O 

truer  than  steel !) 
How  you  sprang — how  you  threw  off  the  costumes  of 

peace  with  indifferent  hand, 
How  your  soft  opera-music  changed,  and  the  drum 

and  fife  were  heard  in  their  stead, 
How  you  led  to  the  war,  (that  shall  serve  for  our 

prelude,  songs  of  soldiers,) 
How  Manhattan  drum-taps  led. 

Forty  years  had  I  in  my  city  seen  soldiers  parading, 
Forty  years  as  a  pageant,  till  unawares  the  lady  of  this 

teeming  and  turbulent  city, 
Sleepless  amid  her  ships,  her  houses,  her  incalculable 

wealth, 

With  her  million  children  around  her,  suddenly, 

179 


180        First  O  Songs  for  a  Prelude 

At  dead  of  night,  at  news  from  the  south, 
Incens'd  struck  with  clinch'd  hand  the  pavement. 

A  shock  electric,  the  night  sustain'd  it, 

Till  with  ominous  hum  our  hive  at  daybreak  pour'd 

out  its  myriads. 
From  the  houses  then  and  the  workshops,  and  through 

all  the  doorways, 
Leapt  they  tumultuous,  and  lo!  Manhattan  arming. 

To  the  drum-taps  prompt, 

The  young  men  falling  in  and  arming, 

The  mechanics  arming  (the  trowel,  the  jack-plane,  the 
blacksmith's  hammer,  tost  aside  with  precipi- 
tation,) 

The  lawyer  leaving  his  office  and  arming,  the  judge 

leaving  the  court, 
The  driver  deserting  his  wagon  in  the  street,  jumping 

down,  throwing  the  reins  abruptly  down  on  the 

horses'  backs, 
The  salesman  leaving  the  store,  the  boss,  book-keeper, 

porter,  all  leaving; 
Squads  gather  everywhere  by  common  consent  and 

arm, 

The  new  recruits,  even  boys,  the  old  men  show  them 
how  to  wear  their  accoutrements,  they  buckle 
the  straps  carefully, 

Outdoors  arming,  indoors  arming,  the  flash  of  the 
musket  barrels, 

The  white  tents  cluster  in  camps,  the  arm'd  sen- 
tries around,  the  sunrise  cannon  and  again  at 
sunset, 

Arm'd  regiments  arrive  every  day,  pass  through  the 
city,  and  embark  from  the  wharves, 


First  O  Songs  for  a  Prelude  181 

(How  good  they  look  as  they  tramp  down  to  the  river, 

sweaty,  with  their  guns  on  their  shoulders! 
How  I  love  them!  how  I  could  hug  them,  with  their 

brown  faces  and  their  clothes  and  knapsacks 

cover'd  with  dust!) 
The  blood  of  the  city  up — arm'd!  arm'd!  the  cry 

everywhere, 

The  flags  flung  out  from  the  steeples  of  churches  and 
from  all  the  public  buildings  and  stores, 

The  tearful  parting,  the  mother  kisses  her  son,  the 
son  kisses  his  mother, 

(Loth  is  the  mother  to  part,  yet  not  a  word  does  she 
speak  to  detain  him,) 

The  tumultuous  escort,  the  ranks  of  policemen  pre- 
ceding, clearing  the  way, 

The  unpent  enthusiasm,  the  wild  cheers  of  the  crowd 
for  their  favourites, 

The  artillery,  the  silent  cannons  bright  as  gold,  drawn 
along,  rumble  lightly  over  the  stones, 

(Silent  cannons,  soon  to  cease  your  silence, 

Soon  unlimber'd  to  begin  the  red  business;) 

All  the  mutter  of  preparation,  all  the  determin'd 
arming, 

The  hospital  service,  the  lint,  bandages  and  medicines, 
The  women  volunteering  for  nurses,  the  work  begun 

for  in  earnest,  no  mere  parade  now; 
War!  an  arm'd  race  is  advancing!  the  welcome  for 

battle,  no  turning  away; 
War!  be  it  weeks,  months,  or  years,  an  arm'd  race  is 

advancing  to  welcome  it. 

Mannahatta  a-march — and  it's  O  to  sing  it  well! 
It's  0  for  a  manly  life  in  the  camp. 


1 82         First  O  Songs  for  a  Prelude 

And  the  sturdy  artillery, 

The  guns  bright  as  gold,  the  work  for  giants,  to  serve 

well  the  guns, 
Unlimber  them !  (no  more  as  the  past  forty  years  for 

salutes  for  courtesies  merely, 
Put  in  something  now  besides  powder  and  wadding). 

And  you  lady  of  ships,  you  Mannahatta, 

Old  matron  of  this  proud,  friendly  turbulent  city, 

Often  in  peace  and  wealth  you  were  pensive  or  covertly 

frown' d  amid  all  your  children, 
But  now  you  smile  with  joy  exulting  old  Manna- 
hatta. 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  REGIMENT,  1861. 


H.  H.  Brownell,  U.  S.  N. 

Here  they  come! — 'tis  the  Twelfth,  you  know, — 

The  colonel  is  just  at  hand; 
The  ranks  close  up,  to  the  measured  flow 

Of  music  cheery  and  grand. 
Glitter  on  glitter,  row  by  row, 
The  steady  bayonets,  on  they  go 

For  God  and  the  Right  to  stand; 
Another  thousand  to  front  the  foe! 
And  to  die — if  it  must  be  even  so — 

For  the  dear  old  fatherland ! 

0  trusty  and  true!  0  gay  warm  heart! 

O  manly  and  earnest  brow! 
Here,  in  the  hurrying  street,  we  part — 

To  meet — ah!  when  and  how? 
0  ready  and  staunch!  who,  at  war's  alarm, 
On  lonely  hill-side  and  mountain-farm 

Have  left  the  axe  and  the  plough ! 
That  every  tear  were  a  holy  charm, 
To  guard,  with  honour,  some  head  from  harm, 

And  to  quit  some  generous  vow! 
For,  of  valiant  heart  and  of  sturdy  arm 

Was  never  more  need  than  now. 

183 


The  March  of  the  Regiment 


Ay!  'tis  at  hand! — foul  lips,  be  dumb! 
Our  Armageddon  is  yet  to  come! 
But  cheery  bugle  and  angry  drum, 

With  volleyed  rattle  and  roar, 
And  cannon  thunder-throb,  shall  be  drowned 
That  day  in  a  grander,  stormier  sound; 

The  Land,  from  mountain  to  shore, 
Hurling  shackle  and  scourge  and  stake 
Back  to  their  Lender  of  pit  and  lake; 

('Twas  Tophet  leased  them  of  yore), — 
O  mighty  heart!  thou  wast  long  to  wake. — 
'Tis  thine,  to-morrow,  to  win  or  break 

In  a  deadlier  close  once  more, — 
If  but  for  the  dear  and  glorious  sake 

Of  those  who  have  gone  before. 

O  Fair  and  Faithful !  that,  sun  by  sun, 
Slept  on  the  field,  or  lost  or  won, — 
Children  dear  of  the  Holy  One! 

Rest  in  your  wintry  sod. 
Rest,  your  noble  devoir  is  done, — 
Done — and  forever!    Ours,  to-day, 
The  dreary  drift  and  the  frozen  clay 

By  trampling  armies  trod; 
The  smoky  shroud  of  the  War-Simoom, 
The  maddened  crime  at  bay  with  her  Doom, 

And  fighting  it,  clod  by  clod. 
O  Calm  and  Glory! — beyond  the  gloom, 
Above  the  bayonets  bend  and  bloom 

The  lilies  and  palms  of  God. 


TO  THE  TENTH  LEGION,  NEW  YORK  STATE 
VOLUNTEERS.  1862 


That  passed  down  Broadway  singing  the  Refrain: 
"  For  God  and  Our  Country,  We  Are  Marching  Along  " 

Ruth  N.  Cromwell 

Marching  along! — marching  to  the  war — 
I  saw  them  as  they  passed,  a  thousand  men  or  more; 
Their  bayonets  were  gleaming  in  the  sun's  burning 
light, 

For  God  and  their  Country,  they  were  marching  to 
the  fight- 
Marching  along — marching  along — 
"For  God  and  our  Country,  we  are  marching  along." 

I  could  not  see  their  banners,  for  my  eyes  grew 
dim; 

I  but  thought  of  my  country,  and  sublime  grew  their 
hymn, 

Till  my  soul  echoed  back,  oh !  again  and  again, 
The  song  of  the  battle ! — the  soldiers'  refrain — 

Marching  along — marching  along — 
"For  God  and  our  Country,  we  are  marching  along. 

I  have  bowed  to  the  song,  when  love  was  the  theme; 
I  have  listened  to  the  chime,  when  fame  was  the 
dream ; 

185 


To  the  Tenth  Legion 


Not  the  psalmodies  of  life,  nor  the  cadences  of  art, 
Were  so  grand  to  my  ear,  or  so  dear  to  my  heart — 

Marching  along — marching  along — 
"For  God  and  our  Country,  we  are  marching  along." 

Loud  blew  the  bugle — God  keep  them  where  they 
roam, 

For  the  hearts  that  are  waiting,  for  the  firesides 
at  home — 

Loud  blew  the  bugle  and  they  answered  in  their 
might, 

For  God  and  our  Country,  we  are  marching  to  the 
fight. 

Marching  along — marching  along — 
"For  God  and  our  Country,  we  are  marching  along." 

Marching  along — marching  along — 
Brave  were  their  hearts,  and  brave  was  their  song. 
Oh,  I  know  there  are  leaves  on  the  old  bay-tree, 
That  are  growing  for  their  brows,  in  the  land  of  the 
free, — 

Marching  along — marching  along — 
"For  God  and  their  Country,  they  were  marching 
along." 


THE  DRAFT  RIOT 


July,   1863.    In  the  University  Tower 

Charles  deKay 

Is  it  the  wind,  the  many-tongued,  the  weird 

That  cries  in  sharp  distress  about  the  eaves? 
Is  it  the  wind  whose  gathering  shout  is  heard 

With  voice  of  peoples  myriad  like  the  leaves  ? 
Is  it  the  wind?    Fly  to  the  casement,  quick, 
And  when  the  roar  comes  thick 
Fling  wide  the  sash, 
Await  the  crash ! 

Nothing.    Some  various  solitary  cries, 

Some  sauntering  woman's  short  hard  laugh, 
Or  honester,  a  dog's  bark — these  arise 

From  lamplit  street  up  to  this  free  flagstaff. 
Nothing  remains  of  that  low  threatening  sound ; 
The  wind  raves  not  the  eaves  around  .  .  . 
Clasp  casement  to, 
You  heard  not  true. 

Hark  there  again !  a  roar  that  holds  a  shriek ! 

But  not  without,  no,  from  below  it  comes: 
What  pulses  up  from  solid  earth  to  wreak 

A  vengeful  word  on  towers  and  lofty  domes? 
187 


The  Draft  Riot 


What  angry  'booming  doth  the  trembling  ear, 
Glued  to  the  stone  wall,  hear — 

So  deep,  no  air 

Its  weight  can  bear? 

Grieve!    'Tis  the  voice  of  ignorance  and  vice, 
The  rage  of  slaves  who  fancy  they  are  free, 
Men  who  would  keep  men  slaves  at  any  price, 

Too  blind  their  own  black  manacles  to  see. 
Grieve!    'Tis  that  grisly  spectre  with  a  torch, 
Riot — that  bloodies  every  porch, 
'  \  Hurls  justice  down 
And  burns  the  town. 


Hanging  a  Negro  at  Clarkson  Street.    The  Draft  Riots 

From  Harper's  Weekly,  August  i,  1863 


LE  GRENIER 


"Dans  un  grenier  qu'on  est  bien  a  vingt  ans. " — Beranger. 

Robertson  Trowbridge 

Here  is  the  street — the  house  is  standing  yet ! 

Four  stories  up  the  little  window  gleams. 
The  basement  still  announces  "Rooms  to  Let"; 

Through  the  wide  door  the  dusty  sunlight  streams. 
But  how  the  place  has  changed!    Across  the  way 

A  tenement  its  swarming  bulk  uprears — 
'Twas  here  I  weathered  it  for  many  a  day, 

With  Youth  and  Hope  for  friends,  at  Twenty 
Years. 

A  small  hall-room!    I  seek  it  half  by  stealth — 

Who  cares  ?  the  world  may  know  it  if  it  will ! 
The  worst  is  told.    I  had  stout  heart,  good  health, 

A  modest  clerkship,  wants  more  modest  still; 
Companions  too,  (I  had  companions  then !) — 

What  room  in  all  my  "up-town  palace"  hears 
Such  peals  of  mirth  as  yonder  little  den 

When  I  and  Youth  kept  house,  at  Twenty  Years! 

'Twas  here  I  brought  my  bride.    In  that  dim  place 
The  too  brief  summer  of  our  joy  first  smiled. 

Which  of  your  carpet-knights,  my  queenly  Grace, 
To  such  a  lot  will  woo  your  mother's  child? 
189 


190 


Le  Grenier 


Just  Powers !  how  dared  we  to  be  gay  and  glad, 
To  face  the  world,  unvexed  by  cramping  fears? 

Rash  ? — reckless  ?    We  were  mad ! — how  nobly  mad 
With  the  brave  wine  of  Love  and  Twenty  Years ! 

Once,  as  we  listened  at  the  window  there, 

In  the  warm  sunlight  of  an  April  day, 
A  sound  of  loyal  thunder  filled  the  air — 

The  Massachusetts  Sixth  marched  down  Broad- 
way. 

0  gallant  hearts  and  times !    0  drum  and  fife ! 

In  '62  I  joined  the  volunteers. 
Poor  wounded  soldier,  lonely  waiting  wife, 

We  learned  what  glory  meant,  at  Twenty  Years ! 

It's  time  to  go.    The  place  looks  chill  and  drear. 

Fate !  were  it  lot  of  mine  to  overlive 
But  half  the  happy  days  I've  counted  here, 

I'd  give — what  have  I  that  I  woul  i  not  give? — 
Again  to  struggle  on,  to  breast  the  tide, 

To  know  the  worst  of  Fortune's  frowns  and  fears, 
Brave  heart  within,  my  darling  at  my  side, 

And  all  the  world  to  win,  at  Twenty  Years ! 


SIRO  DELMONICO 


Samuel  Ward 

He  lieth  low  whose  constant  art 
For  years  the  daily  feasts  purveyed 

Of  wayfarers  from  every  mart, 
The  Paladins  of  every  trade. 

And  yet  to-night  gay  music  stirs 

The  halls  he  strolled  through  yestere'en, 

And  mantles  high  the  wine  that  spurs 
The  revellers  by  him  unseen. 

Le  Roi  est  mort !    Vive  le  Roi ! 

One  leader  drops,  another  comes; 
On  flows  the  dance, — a  stream  of  joy 

Staccatoed  by  the  muffled  drums 

That  soon  for  us  shall  mark  the  tread 

Of  mourning  friends  and  chanting  priests. 

Ah !  there  are  other  banquets  spread 
Than  Siro's  memorable  feasts. ' 


191 


BROWN,  OF  GRACE  CHURCH,  1864 

Peter  Marie 

O  glorious  Brown !  thou  medley  strange 

Of  church-yard,  ball-room,  saint,  and  sinner; 
Flying  by  morn  through  Fashion's  range, 

And  burying  mortals  after  dinner — 
Walking  one  day  with  invitations, 
Passing  the  next  at  consecrations, 
Tossing  the  sod  at  eve  on  coffins, 
With  one  hand  drying  tears  of  orphans 
And  one  unclasping  ball-room  carriage, 
Or  cutting  plum-cake  up  at  marriage — 
Dusting  by  day  the  pew  and  missal — 
Sounding  by  night  the  ball-room  whistle — 
Admitted  free  through  Fashion's  wicket, 
And  skilled  at  psalms,  at  punch,  at  cricket; 
Relate  by  what  mysterious  art 
Thou  canst  so  well  fulfil  thy  part — 
And  how,  thus  sorely  tasked  each  week, 
Thou  look'st  so  happy,  fat  and  sleek. 
Repeat  to  us  the  prittle-prattle 
About  thine  ears  must  daily  rattle, 
When  marching  round  through  Fashion's  quarters 
Thou'rt  questioned  oft  by  Eve's  fair  daughters, 
And  tell  us  why  seek  up,  seek  down, 
192 


Brown,  of  Grace  Church 


O'er  all  the  earth,  there's  but  one  Brown — 
One  man  alone  whom  church  and  state 
At  once  consent  to  consecrate, 
With  license  boundless  to  combine 
The  pew,  the  ball,  the  hearse,  the  wine! 


13 


THE  TWEED  RING,  1868 


Anonymous 

The  great  Moguls  of  Gotham !  their  proud  purses 
Grow  with  the  rich  man's  spoil  and  poor  man 
curses; 

With  a  firm  grasp  on  ev'ry  pocket,  they 

Build  fanes  for  which  the  servile  people  pay. 

The  Rich  and  Poor  they  plunder  as  they  will — 

The  more  the  people  howl  the  more  they  steal ; 

Millions  on  millions  to  their  minions  fling, 

And  make  all  rich  who  battle  for  the  Ring. 

As  on  a  foe  upon  New  York  they  forage, 

Whose  people  stand  it  patiently — with  courage. 

Meanwhile  the  City  debt  by  millions  grows, 

And  what  it  is  no  human  being  knows, 

Nor  will,  till  Tweed  lets  Connolly  declare 

The  mighty  load  the  patient  people  bear. 

The  money  which  at  Albany  does  work — 

Comes  from  the  tax-afflicted  of  New  York; 

The  feather  ravished  from  that  well-plucked  mart, 

Wings  the  sharp  arrow  to  her  bleeding  heart ! 

A  bold  Triumvirate  now  masters  all, — 

Chief  consuls,  Sweeney,  Tweed,  and  Oakey  Hall, — 

The  World's  Emporium,  soon  to  be, 

Sleeps  in  the  throttles  of  this  ruthless  Three. 


194 


THE  STREETS,  1869 


W.  0.  Stoddard 

Our  city  is  born  of  the  pure,  blue  sea, 
And  girt  by  the  waters  of  rivers  three — 
Two  of  them  large  and  one  of  them  small — 
And  the  ocean  tides,  as  they  rise  and  fall, 
Wash  the  feet  of  our  island  town, 
Swinging  and  plashing  up  and  down. 
Easy  it  should  be  to  keep  us  clean, 
A  city  that  lies  such  washings  between; 
Plenty  of  water  and  plenty  of  soap, 
Plenty  of  shovels  and  hoes,  we  hope, 
And  other  hose  that  may  carry  and  squirt 
Streams  of  water  wherever  there's  dirt ; 
And  yet  this  town,  that  should  be  so  clean, 
Is  the  dirtiest  city  that  ever  was  seen. 
From  end  to  end  of  each  filthy  street 
Nothing  is  pure  and  nothing  is  sweet. 
And  the  mire  our  rolling  wheels  that  clogs 
Is  foul  with  the  bodies  of  cats  and  dogs, 
And  the  offal  of  cleaner  brutes  than  they 
Who  leave  our  streets  in  so  vile  a  way 
In  spite  of  all  the  money  we  pay. 
For,  know,  oh  monarch  of  Scanderoon, 
That  we,  thy  people,  from  June  till  June, 
Pay  enough,  in  our  hard  won  gold, 
i95 


196 


The  Streets 


Fairly  counted  and  straightly  told, 

If  into  a  sheet  it  was  properly  rolled, 

To  cover  the  pavement  of  stone  and  wood — 

The  pavement  that  is,  we  mean,  that  should 

Be  under  the  sloppy  and  slippery  mire 

Where  our  garments  spoil  and  our  horses  tire — 

From  end  to  end  of  the  city  wide, 

And  leave  an  elegant  fringe  outside. 

And  the  thing  is  a  thing,  oh  king,  that  sours 

On  us  all,  to  find  that  the  city  powers, 

The  grand  magnorums  who  round  you  stand, 

And  take  our  money  with  greedy  hand, 

See  no  evil,  or  shame,  or  hurt 

In  leaving  our  streets  all  hid  in  the  dirt. 


DAWN  IN  THE  CITY 


Charles  deKay 

The  city  slowly  wakes: 

Her  every  chimney  makes 
Offering  of  smoke  against  the  cool  white  skies. 

Slowly  the  morning  shakes 

The  lingering  shadowy  flakes 
Of  night  from  doors  and  windows,  from  the  city's  eyes. 

A  breath  through  heaven  goes: 

Leaves  of  the  pale  sweet  rose 
Are  strewn  along  the  clouds  of  upper  air. 

Healer  of  ancient  woes, 

The  palm  of  dawn  bestows 
Peace  on  the  feverish  brow,  comfort  on  grim  despair. 

Now  the  celestial  fire 

Fingers  the  sunken  spire, 
Crocket  by  crocket  swiftly  creepeth  down; 

Brushes  the  maze  of  wire, 

Dewy,  electric  lyre, 
And  with  a  silent  hymn  one  moment  fills  the  town. 

A  sound  of  pattering  hoofs 
Above  the  emergent  roofs 
And  anxious  bleatings  tell  the  passing  herd; 

197 


198 


Dawn  in  the  City 


Scared  by  the  piteous  droves 
A  shoal  of  skurrying  doves 
Veering,  around  the  island  of  the  church  has  whirred. 

Soon  through  the  smoky  haze 

The  park  begins  to  raise 
Its  outlines  clearer  into  day  lit  prose; 

Ever  with  fresh  amaze 

The  sleepless  fountains  praise 
Morn  that  has  gilt  the  city  as  it  gilds  the  rose. 

High  in  the  clear  air 

The  smoke  now  builds  a  stair 
Leading  to  realms  no  wing  of  bird  has  found; 

Things  are  more  foul,  more  fair; 

A  distant  clock  somewhere 
Strikes,  and  the  dreamer  starts  at  clear  reverberant 
sound. 

Farther  the  tide  of  dark 

Drains  from  each  square  and  park ; 
Here  is  a  city  fresh  and  new-create, 

Wondrous  as  though  the  ark 

Should  once  again  disbark 
On  a  remoulded  world  its  safe  and  joyous  freight. 

Ebbs  all  the  dark,  and  now 

Life  eddies  to  and  fro 
By  pier  and  alley,  street  and  avenue: 

The  myriads  stir  below, 

As  hives  of  coral  grow — 
Vaulted  above,  like  them  with  a  fresh  sea  of  blue. 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK 


At  the  Unveiling  of  his  Statue,  1877 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier 

Among  their  graven  shapes  to  whom 

Thy  civic  wreaths  belong, 
O  city  of  his  love,  make  room 

For  one  whose  gift  was  song. 

In  common  ways,  with  common  men, 

He  served  his  race  and  time 
As  well  as  if  his  clerkly  pen 
•  Had  never  danced  to  rhyme. 

He  toiled  and  sang ;  and  year  by  year 
Men  found  their  homes  more  sweet, 

And  through  a  tenderer  atmosphere 
Looked  down  the  brick-walled  street. 

The  Greek's  wild  onset  Wall  Street  knew; 

The  Red  King  walked  Broadway; 
And  Alnwick  Castle's  roses  blew 

From  Palisades  to  Bay. 

Fair  City  by  the  Sea!  upraise 
His  veil  with  reverent  hands; 

And  mingle  with  thy  own  the  praise 
And  pride  of  other  lands. 

199 


200  Fitz-Greene  Halleck 


0,  stately  stand  thy  palace  walls, 

Thy  tall  ships  ride  the  seas; 
To-day  thy  poet's  name  recalls 

A  prouder  thought  than  these. 

Not  less  thy  pulse  of  trade  shall  beat, 
Not  less  thy  tall  fleets  swim, 

That  shaded  square  and  dusty  street 
Are  classic  ground  through  him. 

New  hands  the  wires  of  song  may  sweep, 

New  voices  challenge  fame; 
But  let  no  moss  of  years  o'ercreep 

The  lines  of  Halleck' s  name. 


THE  "  STAY  AT  HOME'S  "  PLAINT,  i 


George  A.  Baker,  Jr. 

The  Spring  has  grown  to  Summer; 

The  sun  is  fierce  and  high; 
The  city  shrinks  and  withers 

Beneath  a  burning  sky. 
Ailanthus  trees  are  fragrant, 

And  thicker  shadows  cast, 
While  berry-girls,  with  voices  shrill, 

And  watering-carts  go  past. 

In  offices  like  ovens 

We  sit  without  our  coats; 
Our  cuffs  are  moist  and  shapeless, 

No  collars  bind  our  throats. 
We  carry  huge  umbrellas 

On  Broad  Street  and  on  Wall, 
Oh,  how  thermometers  go  up! 

And,  oh,  how  stocks  do  fall! 

The  nights  are  full  of  music, 

Melodious  Teuton  troops 
Beguile  us,  calmly  smoking, 

On  balconies  and  stoops. 
With  eyes  half-shut  and  dreamy, 

We  watch  the  fire-flies'  spark, 
And  image  far-off  faces, 

As  day  dies  into  dark. 
201 


202      The  "  Stay  at  Home's  99  Plaint 


The  avenue  is  lonely, 

The  houses  choked  with  dust ; 
The  shutters,  barred  and  bolted, 

The  bell-knobs  all  a-rust. 
No  blossom-like  spring  dresses, 

No  faces  young  and  fair, 
From  "Dickels"  to  "The  Brunswick," 

No  promenader  there. 

The  girls  we  used  to  walk  with 

Are  far  away,  alas! 
The  feet  that  kissed  its  pavement 

Are  deep  in  country  grass. 
Along  the  scented  hedge-rows, 

Among  the  green  old  trees, 
Are  blooming  city  faces 

'Neath  rosy-lined  pongees. 

They're  cottaging  at  Newport; 

They're  bathing  at  Cape  May; 
In  Saratoga's  ball-rooms 

They  dance  the  hours  away. 
Their  voices  through  the  quiet 

Of  haunted  Catskill  break ; 
Or  rouse  those  dreamy  dryads, 

The  nymphs  of  Echo  Lake. 

The  hands  we've  led  through  Germans, 

And  squeezed,  perchance,  of  yore, 
Now  deftly  grasp  the  bridle, 

The  mallet,  and  the  oar. 
The  eyes  that  wrought  our  ruin 

On  other  men  look  down ; 
We're  but  the  broken  play-things 

They've  left  behind  in  town. 


BALLADE  OF  BARRISTERS 


C.  C.  Starkweather 

To  the  shy,  sweet  face  that  I  saw  this  morning, 

I  toss  this  kiss  from  my  window-sill. 
And  mayhap  my  partner  will  give  me  warning 

If  I  shove  not  quicker  my  grey  goose-quill. 

I've  twenty  folios  yet  to  fill. 
So  it's  Blue  Eyes,  Down !  till  this  deed  is  drawn ; 
For  Maiden  Lane's  not  a  lover's  lawn, 

And  the  rattle  of  Broadway  never  is  still. 

From  seal  and  parchment  and  dust-covered  papers, 
My  thoughts  fly  back  to  her — willy  nil. 

I  lunch  at  Cable's  on  lamb  and  capers, 
And  a  secret  bumper  I  drain  with  Phil, 
And  I  smile  when  he  leaves  me  to  pay  the  bill. 

Oh,  it's  Blue  Eyes,  Down!  till  this  deed  is  drawn; 

For  Maiden  Lane's  not  a  lover's  lawn, 
And  the  rattle  of  Broadway  never  is  still. 

My  office  is  no  conservatory ; 

Its  walls  are  like  blanks  for  a  clerk  to  fill ; 
But  that  mignonette,  jasmine,  and  morning-glory 

The  charms  of  a  whole  hothouse  would  kill 


203 


204  Ballade  of  Barristers 


In  the  white  vase  there,  on  the  window-sill. 
But  it's  Blue  Eyes,  Down !  till  this  deed  is  drawn ; 
For  Maiden  Lane's  not  a  lover's  lawn, 

And  the  rattle  of  Broadway  never  is  still. 

Envoy 

Barristers!  with  brief -bags  to  fill 

It's  Blue  Eyes,  Down !  till  the  deeds  are  drawn, 
For  Maiden  Lane's  not  a  lover's  lawn, 

And  the  rattle  of  Broadway  never  is  still. 


A  SUMMER  SUMMARY 


Franklin  P.  Adams 

Shall  I,  lying  in  a  grot, 
Die  because  the  day  is  hot? 
Or  declare  I  can't  endure 
Such  a  torrid  temperature? 
Be  it  hotter  than  the  flames 
South  Gehenna  Junction  claims, 
If  it  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  hot  it  be? 

Shall  I  say  I  love  the  town 
Praised  by  Robinson  and  Browne? 
Shall  I  say,  "In  Summer  heat 
Old  Manhattan  can't  be  beat"? 
Be  it  luring  as  a  bar, 
Or  my  neighbor's  motor-car, 
If  I  think  it  is  pazziz 
What  care  I  how  fine  it  is? 

Shall  I  prate  of  rural  joys 
Far  from  civic  smoke  and  noise? 
Shall  I,  like  the  others,  drool 
"But  the  nights  are  always  cool"? 
If  I  hate  to  rise  at  six 
Shall  I  praise  the  suburbs?  Nix! 
205 


206  A  Summer  Summary 


If  the  country's  not  for  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  it  be? 

Town  or  country,  cool  or  hot, 
Differs  nothing,  matters  not; 
For  to  quote  that  Roman  cuss, 
Why  dispute  "de  gustibus"? 
If  to  this  or  that  one  should 
Take  a  fancy,  it  is  good. 

If  these  rhymes  look  good  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  bad  they  be? 


HYMN 

Sung  at  the  Presentation  of  the  Obelisk  to  the  City  of  New 
York,  February  22,  1881. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder 

Great  God,  to  whom  since  time  began 
The  world  has  prayed  and  striven; 
Maker  of  stars,  and  earth,  and  man, 
To  thee  our  praise  is  given. 
Here,  by  this  ancient  Sign 
Of  Thine  own  Light  divine, 
We  lift  to  thee  our  eyes, 
Thou  Dweller  of  the  Skies; 
Hear  us,  0  God  in  Heaven! 

Older  than  Nilus*  mighty  flood 

Into  the  Mid-Sea  pouring, 
Or  than  the  sea,  Thou  God  hast  stood — 
Thou  God  of  our  adoring! 
Waters  and  stormy  blast 
Haste  when  thou  bid'st  them  haste; 
Silent,  and  hid,  and  still, 
Thou  sendest  good  and  ill; 
Thy  ways  are  past  exploring. 

In  myriad  forms,  by  myriad  names, 
Men  seek  to  bind  and  mould  Thee; 
207 


208 


Hymn 


But  Thou  dost  melt,  like  wax  in  flames, 
The  cords  that  would  enfold  Thee 
Who  mad  est  life  and  light, 
Bring'st  morning  after  night, 
Who  all  things  did  create — 
No  majesty,  nor  state, 
Nor  word,  nor  world  can  hold  Thee! 

Great  God,  to  whom  since  time  began 

The  world  has  prayed  and  striven; 
Maker  of  stars,  and  earth,  and  man, 
To  Thee  our  praise  is  given. 
Of  suns  Thou  art  the  Sun, 
Eternal,  holy  One; 
Who  us  can  help  save  Thou? 
To  Thee  alone  we  bow ! 
Hear  us,  0  God  in  heaven! 


THE  BUNTLING  BALL,  1884 


Edgar  Fawcett 
Mr.  Buntling  Speaks  : 

O  proud  New  York,  that  wast  New  Amsterdam, 
How  art  thou  fallen  away  from  dignity ! 
Methinks  thy  Battery  and  thy  Bowling  Green 
Should  split  in  angered  earthquake  at  thy  shame ! 
Thou,  too,  indignant  Peter,  shouldst  arise, 
A  shade  with  slim  clay  pipe  and  ligneous  leg, 
To  lay  thy  broad  staff  on  the  ungrateful  heads 
Of  these  thy  base  descendants,  them  that  love 
Gross  pelf  and  pander  to  the  parvenu ! 
For  such  am  I,  even  such,  and  better  far 
The  laboring  Scythia's  westward-pointed  prow 
Nor  me  nor  mine  had  hither  borne  unscathed 
Through  the  strait  Narrows;  but  that  either  strand 
Had  clashing  met,  and  whelmed  off  Sandy  Hook 
The  great  ship's  vigor  in  tumultuous  waves! 
Thus  were  averted  this  unseemly  Ball, 
Its  hollow  and  absurd  extravagance 
Checked  by  the  grim  economy  of  death ! 

Chorus  of  Knickerbocker  Young  Men 

Old  man,  do  not  be  nonsensical 
In  your  views  about  New  York; 
209 


210 


The  Buntling  Ball 


You  are  needlessly  forensical 

For  a  potentate  in  Pork ! 
Why  not  recollect  with  gratitude 

That  we  throng  your  mansion  wide, 
And  express  no  moral  platitude 

Upon  Knickerbocker  pride? 
Since  the  days  when  dull  old  Trinity 

Was  a  temple  far  up  town, 
And  a  girl  was  thought  divinity 

If  she  owned  but  one  silk  gown; 
Since  the  days  when  each  festivity 

They  would  all  by  twelve  forsake, 

And  the  dominant  proclivity 

Was  for  lemonade-and-cake ; 
Since  the  days  when  aristocracy 

Of  the  gender  known  as  male, 
Would  esteem  it  vain  plutocracy 

To  exploit  a  swallow-tail; 
Since  the  days  when  custom's  manacle 

Was  a  bond  of  rigid  force, — 
Since  the  days  thus  puritanical, 

We  have  altered  things,  of  course. 
For  the  years  are  cruel  pillagers, 

As  they  lay  old  fashions  low, 
And  to  live  like  simple  villagers 

Is  no  longer  comme  il  faut. 
Our  progenitors  (peace  be  with  them !) 

Were  a  very  stupid  lot, 
And  so  little  we  agree  with  them 

That  we  imitate  them  not. 
They  were  certainly  respectable, 

As  with  pride  we  now  declare, 
But  we  find  it  more  delectable 

If  we  draw  the  line  just  there. 


The  Buntling  Ball 


For  to  fling  aside  all  flattery, 
And  to  speak  as  hits  the  mark, 

They  were  narrow  as  the  Battery 
When  compared  with  Central  Park. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  GRANT 


New  York,  August  8,  1885 

Richard  Watson  Gilder 

Ye  living  soldiers  of  the  mighty  war, 

Once  more  from  roaring  cannon,  and  the  drums, 

And  bugles  blown  at  morn,  the  summons  comes; 
Forget  the  halting  limb,  each  wound  and  scar; 

Once  more  your  Captain  calls  to  you; 

Come  to  his  last  review! 

And  come  ye,  too,  bright  spirits  of  the  dead, 

Ye  who  flamed  heavenward  from  the  embattled 
field; 

And  ye  whose  harder  fate  it  was  to  yield 
Life  from  the  loathful  prison  or  anguished  bed ; 
Dear  ghosts!  come  join  your  comrades  here 
Beside  this  sacred  bier! 

Nor  be  ye  absent,  ye  immortal  band, — 
Warriors  of  ages  past,  and  our  own  age, — 
Who  drew  the  sword  for  right,  and  not  in  rage, 

Made  war  that  peace  might  live  in  all  the  land, 
Nor  ever  struck  one  vengeful  blow, 
But  helped  the  fallen  foe. 

212 


The  Burial  of  Grant 


213 


And  fail  not  ye, — but,  ah,  ye  falter  not 

To  join  his  army  of  the  dead  and  living, — 
Ye  who  once  felt  his  might,  and  his  forgiving; 

Brothers,  whom  more  in  love  than  hate  he  smote. 
For  all  his  countrymen  make  room 
By  our  great  hero's  tomb! 

Come  soldiers — not  to  battle  as  of  yore, 

But  come  to  weep;  ay,  shed,  your  noblest  tears; 

For  lo,  the  stubborn  chief,  who  knew  not  fears, 
Lies  cold  at  last,  ye  shall  not  see  him  more, 

How  long  grim  Death  he  fought  and  well, 

That  poor,  lean  frame  doth  tell. 

All's  over  now;  here  let  our  Captain  rest, 

Silent  among  the  blare  of  praise  and  blame; 

Here  let  him  rest,  while  never  rests  his  fame; 
Here  in  the  city's  heart  he  loved  the  best, 

And  where  our  sons  his  tomb  may  see 

To  make  them  brave  as  he; — 

As  brave  as  he — he  on  whose  iron  arm 

Our  Greatest  leaned,  our  gentlest  and  most  wise; 

Leaned  when  all  other  help  seemed  mocking  lies, 
While  this  one  soldier  checked  the  tide  of  harm, 

And  they  together  saved  the  state, 

And  made  it  free  and  great. 


A  BALLAD  OF  CLAREMONT  HILL 


Henry  van  Dyke 

The  roar  of  the  city  is  low, 
Muffled  by  new-fallen  snow, 
And  the  sign  of  the  wintry  moon  is  small  and  round 
and  still. 
Will  you  come  with  me  to-night, 
To  see  a  pleasant  sight 
Away  on  the  river-side,  at  the  edge  of  Claremont 
Hill? 

"And  what  shall  we  see  there, 
But  streets  that  are  new  and  bare, 
And  many  a  desolate  place  that  the  city  is  coming  to 
fill; 

And  a  soldier's  tomb  of  stone, 
And  a  few  trees  standing  alone — 
Will  you  walk  for  that  through  the  cold,  to  the  edge  of 
Claremont  Hill?" 

But  there's  more  than  that  for  me, 
In  the  place  that  I  fain  would  see: 
There's  a  glimpse  of  the  grace  that  helps  us  all  to  bear 
life's  ill; 
A  touch  of  the  vital  breath 
That  keeps  the  world  from  death ; 

214 


A  Ballad  of  Claremont  Hill 


215 


A  flower  that  never  fades,  on  the  edge  of  Claremont 
Hill. 

For  just  where  the  road  swings  round, 

In  a  narrow  strip  of  ground, 
Where  a  group  of  forest  trees  are  lingering  fondly  still, 

There's  a  grave  of  the  olden  time, 

When  the  garden  bloomed  in  its  prime, 
And  the  children  laughed  and  sang  on  the  edge  of 
Claremont  Hill. 

The  marble  is  pure  and  white, 

And  even  in  this  dim  light, 
You  may  read  the  simple  words  that  are  written 
there  if  you  will ; 

You  may  hear  a  father  tell 

Of  a  child  he  loved  so  well, 
A  hundred  years  ago,  on  the  edge  of  Claremont  Hill. 

The  tide  of  the  city  has  rolled 

Across  that  bower  of  old, 
And  blotted  out  the  beds  of  the  rose  and  the  daffodil; 

But  the  little  playmate  sleeps, 

And  the  shrine  of  love  still  keeps 
A  record  of  happy  days,  on  the  edge  of  Claremont  Hill. 

The  river  is  pouring  down 
To  the  crowded,  careless  town, 
Where  the  intricate  wheels  of  trade  are  grinding  on  like 
a  mill; 

But  the  clamorous  noise  and  strife 
Of  the  hurrying  waves  of  life 
Flow  soft  by  this  haven  of  peace  on  the  edge  of  Clare- 
mont Hill. 


216         A  Ballad  of  Claremont  Hill 


And  after  all,  my  friend, 
When  the  tale  of  our  years  shall  end, 
Be  it  long  or  short,  or  lowly  or  great,  as  God  may 
will, 

What  better  praise  could  we  hear, 
Than  this  of  the  child  so  dear: 
You  have  made  my  life  more  sweet,  on  the  edge  of 
Claremont  Hill. 


RIVERSIDE 

John  Myers  O'Hara 

Across  the  slopes  whose  wooded  spaces  hide 

The  Hudson's  sweep,  rising  more  royal  than 

Above  the  Tiber  that  of  Hadrian, 

A  tomb  looms  domed  and  dim  o'er  dusk  and  tide; 

All  dreams  of  alien  beauty  that  abide, 

The  memory  of  lands  beyond  the  span 

Of  seas  that  sing  the  deeds  of  god  and  man, 

May  reinspire  the  soul  on  Riverside. 

And  now  the  mists  are  falling  on  the  far 

Wide  silver  of  the  river,  and  a  star 

Burns  in  the  pines  that  crown  the  Palisades. 

Slowly  the  final  streak  of  sunlight  fades, 

And  Claremont,  with  the  lamps  against  its  white, 

Shines  like  a  limpid  jewel  in  the  night. 


217 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR'S  CALLERS 


The  Story  of  an  Old  Man,  an  Old  Man's  Friendship, 
and  a  New  Card-Basket 

H.  C.  BUNNER 

The  door  is  shut — I  think  the  fine  old  face 

Trembles  a  little,  round  the  under  lip ; 
His  look  is  wistful — can  it  be  the  place 

Where,  at  his  knock,  the  bolt  was  quick  to  slip 
(It  had  a  knocker  then),  when,  bravely  decked, 

He  took,  of  New  Year's,  with  his  lowest  bow, 
His  glass  of  egg-nog,  white  and  nutmeg-flecked, 

From  her  who  is — where  is  the  young  bride  now? 

O  Greenwood,  answer !    Through  your  ample  gate 

There  went  a  hearse,  these  many  years  ago; 
And  often  by  a  grave — more  oft  of  late — 

Stands  an  old  gentleman,  with  hair  like  snow. 
Two  graves  he  stands  by,  truly;  for  the  friend 

Who  won  her,  long  has  lain  beside  his  wife; 
And  their  old  comrade,  waiting  for  the  end, 

Remembers  what  they  were  to  him  in  life. 

And  now  he  stands  before  the  old-time  door, 
A  little  gladdened  in  his  lonely  heart 

To  give  of  love  for  those  that  are  no  more 
To  those  that  live  to-day  a  generous  part. 
218 


The  Last  of  the  New  Year's  Callers  219 


Ay,  She  has  gone,  sweet,  loyal,  brave,  and  gay — 
But  then,  her  daughter's  grown  and  wed  the  while; 

And  the  old  custom  lingers:  New  Year's  Day, 
Will  she  not  greet  him  with  her  mother's  smile? 

But  things  are  changed,  ah,  things  are  changed  you 
see; 

We  keep  no  New  Year's,  now,  not  we — 

It's  an  old-time  day, 

And  an  old-time  way, 
And  an  old-time  fashion  we've  chosen  to  cut — 

And  the  dear  old  man 

May  wait  as  he  can 
In  front  of  the  old-time  door  that's  shut. 


THE  COLUMBUS  PARADE,  1893 


Starr  Hoyt  Nichols 

Huge  warships  of  all  nations  side  by  side, 

Oarless  and  sailless,  heedless  of  the  breeze 

Drive  their  colossal  prow  with  conquering  ease 

Against  the  thrusting  of  an  adverse  tide; 

And  'mid  them  three  curved  caravels — the  pride 

Of  bold  Columbus,  when  he  clove  the  seas, 

The  windy  sport  of  what  storm-gods  might  please, 

Seeking  strange  ports  where  keel  did  never  ride, 

Yet  these  leviathans  are  proud  to  dip 

Their  bright  flags  to  the  pigmy  counterpart 

Of  his  slight  ships;  and  from  the  flame- wreathed  lip 

Of  thundering  cannon  cheer  his  dauntless  heart. 

Greater  than  Caesar's  fortunes  carried  well 

The  fragile  oak  of  Christopher's  caravel. 


220 


WHEN  THE  GREAT  GRAY  SHIPS  COME  IN 
New  York  Harbor,  August  20,  1898 
Guy  Wetmore  Carryll 

To  eastward  ringing,  to  westward  winging,  o'er  map- 
less  miles  of  sea, 

On  winds  and  tides  the  gospel  rides  that  the  further- 
most isles  are  free; 

And  the  furthermost  isles  make  answer,  harbor, 
and  height,  and  hill, 

Breaker  and  beach,  cry  each  to  each,  "'Tis  the 
Mother  who  calls !    B  e  still ! ' ' 

Mother!  new-found,  beloved,  and  strong  to  hold  from 
harm, 

Stretching  to  these  across  the  seas  the  shield  of  her 

sovereign  arm, 
Who  summoned  the  guns  of  her  sailor  sons,  who  bade 

her  navies  roam, 
Who  calls  again  to  the  leagues  of  main,  and  who  calls 

them  this  time  home! 

And  the  great  gray  ships  are  silent,  and  the  weary 

watchers  rest; 
The  black  cloud  dies  in  the  August  skies  and  deep  in 

the  golden  west 

221 


222   When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  Come  In 

Invisible  hands  are  limning  a  glory  of  crimson  bars, 
And  far  above  is  the  wonder  of  a  myriad  wakened 
stars ! 

Peace!    As  the  tidings  silence  the  strenuous  cannon- 
ade, 

Peace  at  last !  is  the  bugle-blast  the  length  of  the  long 
blockade; 

And  eyes  of  vigil  weary  are  lit  with  the  glad  release, 
From  ship  to  ship  and  from  lip  to  lip  it  is  "Peace! 
Thank  God  for  peace!" 

Ah,  in  the  sweet  hereafter  Columbia  still  shall  show 
The  sons  of  those  who  swept  the  seas  how  she  bade 

them  rise  and  go; 
How,  when  the  stirring  summons  smote  on  her  chil- 
dren's ear, 

South  and  North  at  the  call  stood  forth,  and  the  whole 

land  answered  "Here!" 
For  the  soul  of  the  soldier's  story  and  the  heart  of  the 

sailor's  song 

Are  all  of  those  who  meet  their  foes  as  right  should 

meet  with  wrong, 
Who  fight  their  guns  till  the  foeman  runs,  and  then,  on 

the  decks  they  trod, 
Brave  faces  raise,  and  give  the  praise  to  the  grace  of 

their  country's  God! 

Yes,  it  is  good  to  battle,  and  good  to  be  strong  and 
free, 

To  carry  the  hearts  of  a  people  to  the  uttermost  ends 
of  sea, 

To  see  the  day  steal  up  the  bay,  where  the  enemy  lies 
in  wait, 


When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  Come  In  223 

To  run  your  ship  to  the  harbor's  lip  and  sink  her 

across  the  strait : — 
But  better  the  golden  evening  when  the  ships  round 

heads  for  home, 
And  the  long  gray  miles  slip  swiftly  past  in  a  swirl 

of  seething  foam, 
And  the  people  wait  at  the  haven's  gate,  to  greet  the 

men  who  win! 
Thank  God  for  peace!    Thank  God  for  peace,  when 

the  great  gray  ships  come  in! 


INTERCESSIONAL,  1898 


McCready  Sykes 

Godkin  the  Righteous,  known  of  old, 
Priest  of  the  nation's  moral  health; 

Within  whose  Post  we  daily  read 
The  gospel  of  the  rights  of  wealth; 

Great  Evening  Post,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget;  lest  we  forget. 

The  Tribune  drools;  the  Sun  is  vile; 

The  Journal  and  the  World  are  lies ; 
Alone  thy  Post  speaks  forth  the  truth — 

Not  humble,  but  divinely  wise. 
Omniscient  Post,  don't  leave  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget;  lest  we  forget. 

Far  East  our  navy  swats  the  foe; 

Manila  falls  beneath  our  fire; 
We're  tempted,  Larry,  to  exult — 

But  chide  us  with  thy  caustic  ire. 
Great  Evening  Post,  reprove  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget;  lest  we  forget. 

If,  proud  of  Dewey,  we  cheer  his  name, 

And  count  the  ships  the  Spaniards  lost, 
Such  boastings  as  our  fathers  used — 
224 


Intercessional 

Benighted  folks  without  the  Post; 
Godkin,  be  quick;  remind  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget;  lest  we  forget. 

For  Yankee  heart  that  puts  her  trust 
In  twenty-inch  guns  and  armor  plate, 

And  recognizeth  not  that  all — 
Save  Godkin — are  degenerate; 

For  licking  Spain  and  wicked  brag; 

Godkin,  forgive  thy  country's  flag. 


THE  OLD  LYCEUM 


Fourth  Avenue  and  23RD  Street 

Lines  read  by  Miss  Annie  Russell,  at  the  Final  Performance, 
March  22,  1902 

A.  E.  Lancaster 

The  end  has  come.    Dare  we,  who  face  you  thus, 
To  bid  good-bye  to  you,  as  you  to  us, 
Dare  we  expect  a  place,  however  small, 
With  those  you  love  to  turn  to  and  recall  ? 
Ah,  yes !  You  are  too  generous  to  begrudge 
The  Little  Girl  who  loved  the  Loyal  Judge. 
Her  tempted  parents  now  avoid  temptation; 
The  Probate  Judge  is  scarcely  on  probation; 
Ditto  the  youth  familiarly  called  Jim, 
The  clerk  who  lost  the  clue  he  found  with  vim, 
The  Ikensteins,  on  whom  existence  dawned 
As  numbering  put  the  Pawners  and  the  Pawned, 
And  Mrs.  Brown,  to  better  fortunes  bred, 
But  now  must  keep  a  boarding-house  instead ; 
Likewise,  comparing  one  thing  with  another, 
The  Judge's  quite  "incorrigible"  mother, 
Since  Mrs.  Gilbert  throws  on  every  role 
The  genial  sunshine  of  a  radiant  soul. 

226 


The  Old  Lyceum 


227 


Then,  when  destruction  lays  its  ruthless  hand 
Where  once  the  play  and  player  took  their  stand, 
Hope  and  not  grief  will  cause  our  hearts  to  swell, 
Since  "au  revoir"  will  lurk  behind  "farewell," 
And  from  afar  there  sounds  a.  sweet  Te  Deum, 
Because  the  New  springs  from  the  Old  Lyceum! 


THE  REGIMENT,  1909 


John  Curtis  Underwood 

The  traffic  clears,  and  the  crowd  to  the  curb  shifts  to 

the  roll  of  drums, 
As  down  the  dusty  avenue  the  long  brown  column 

comes, 

And  their  faces  match  their  khaki.  From  Luzon's 
tropic  suns 

They  took  this  tan,  and  the  glint  of  their  eyes  like  the 

glitter  of  their  guns 
Flamed  on  the  way  to  Pekin  till  they  saw  the  flag  still 

there. 

They  bear  their  faded  colors  past,  and  something  in 
the  air 

Lessens  the  roar  of  the  city.    One  gray  bystander  sees 
The  vStars  and  Stripes  at  Gettysburg  and  faces  set  like 
these 

When  death  broke  battle's  mould.  They  pass,  in- 
domitable, strong, 

Wearing  the  deathless  order  of  discipline.    The  throng 

Gentile  and  Jew  and  Kelt  and  Hun  and  their  own  blood 
brothers  thrill 

To  the  ripple  of  their  cadenced  ranks;  for  now  the 
drums  are  still 

And  the  measured  tread  of  feet  that  marched  to  set  the 
Cubans  free, 

228 


The  Regiment  229 

Falls  on  the  asphalt  like  the  sound  of  breakers  when 
the  sea 

Strikes  on  the  sands  at  midnight  to  mark  the  pulse  of 
time, 

And  the  nation's  heart-beat  blends  with  them;  the 

boys  that  breathless  climb 
To  a  lamp-post  or  a  column's  height,  the  girls  whose 

ardent  eyes 

Wake  to  a  world  of  fighting  men  and  the  dream  that 
never  dies; 

Embattled,  grim  in  touch  with  them;  crude  as  brown 

powder  grains 
That  leap  to  life  and  shake  the  air  when  freedom  fires 

the  trains. 

Essential,  hard,  dynamic,  fit,  and  silent  still  they 
go, 

Down  the  pathway  of  their  duty  to  a  goal  that  none 
may  know. 

Here  is  the  nation's  last  reserve,  these  and  their  next 
of  kin 

When  the  ends  of  earth  are  looted  bare  and  the  years 

of  wrath  begin. 
For  each  heart  guards  its  citadel  and  these  shall  serve 

alone 

When  millions  fail  and  navies  sink  and  forts  are 
overthrown. 

They  pass  and  the  city's  tumult  throbs  through  its 
arteries 

And  fills  them  full  of  greed  and  lust,  dishonor  and 

disease, 

And  dreams  insane  of  peace  unearned,  decadence  and 
disgrace; 

But  still  the  red  blood  corpuscles  shall  vitalize  the  race. 


CONSECRATED  GROUND 


An  ode  read  at  the  New  York  City  Hall,  July  4,  191 1 

Edwin  Markham 
1 

Let  there  be  prayer  and  praise 

On  these  worn  stones  and  on  these  trodden  ways; 

For  all  around 

Is  holy  ground, 

Ground  that  departed  years 

Have  hallowed  with  high  dreams 

(Freedom's  immortal  themes) — 

Made  sacred,  too,  with  fall  of  noble  tears. 

11 

Let  there  be  prayer  and  praise, 

For  here  once,  in  the  old,  heroic  days, 

Appeared  our  Washington, 

(Time  had  no  nobler  son!) 

And  here,  beneath  these  lifted  skies,  he  heard 

From  the  new  page  God's  last  oracular  word — 

The  word  the  Bell  of  Liberty  gave  tongue — 

The  word  forever  old,  forever  young — 

The  cry,  "Let  Freedom  be 

On  land,  on  sea!" 

230 


Consecrated  Ground  231 


It  was  the  great  word  that  had  sounded  on 
From  far  Thermopylae  and  Marathon. 

in 

Here  they  brought  Lincoln,  dead  but  deathless — 
here, 

When  hate  had  torn  the  April  from  the  year. 

Here  on  that  darkened  day 

They  brought  the  martyr  on  his  homeward  way ; 

And  in  this  storied  place 

They  laid  him  with  his  hushed,  heroic  face, 

With  all  the  patient  mercies  of  his  look 

Still  written  there  as  in  the  Judgment  Book — 

A  great  soul  that  had  greatly  lived,  and  then, 

Dying,  sent  out  his  greatness  upon  men. 

IV 

And  here  with  stately  step  and  measured  chant, 

They  brought  our  stern,  sad,  silent  soldier,  Grant ; 

Only  a  little  more  stilled,  a  little  more 

Than  he  had  been  on  life's  loud  ways  before. 

He  was  no  babbler  by  the  noisy  gate: 

Only  in  deeds  was  he  articulate — 

Strong  to  strike  blows  that  Righteousness  might 

live- 
Strong  also  to  forgive. 

v 

So  here  where  we  have  brought  our  greatest  dead, 
Here  is  a  shrine,  here  is  an  altar  spread, 
Where  we  may  consecrate  our  hearts  again 
To  their  high  hopes  for  men ; 


232  Consecrated  Ground 


Knowing  our  heroes  watch  us  from  their  spheres, 
Still  touched  by  mortal  tears — 
Knowing  they  watch  us  with  their  serious  eyes, 
There  where  the  deathless  climb  the  deathless  skies. 


NEW  YORK  HARBOR 


Written  in  view  of  the  harbor  of  New  York  on  the  loveliest  and 
calmest  of  the  last  days  of  autumn. 

Park  Benjamin 

Is  this  a  painting?    Are  those  pictured  clouds 
Which  on  the  sky  so  movelessly  repose? 

Has  some  rare  artist  fashioned  forth  the  shrouds 
Of  yonder  vessel  ?    Are  these  imaged  shows 

Of  outline,  figure,  form,  or  is  there  life — 
Life  with  a  thousand  pulses — in  the  scene 
We  gaze  upon,  those  towering  banks  between, 

Ere  tossed  these  billows  in  tumultuous  strife? 

Billows!  there's  not  a  wave!  the  waters  spread 
One  broad,  unbroken  mirror!  all  around 
Is  hushed  to  silence, — silence  so  profound 

That  a  bird's  carol,  or  an  arrow  sped 
Into  the  distance,  would,  like  larum  bell, 
Jar  the  deep  stillness  and  dissolve  the  spell ! 


233 


NEW  YORK  IN  SUNSET 


William  Ellery  Leonard 

The  island  city  of  dominion  stands, 
Crowned  with  all  turrets,  o'er  the  waters'  crest, 
Throned,  like  the  bright  Cybele  of  the  West, 
And  hailed  with  cymbals  in  a  million  hands 
Around  here;  yet  serenely  she  commands 
The  inland  vision  and  the  ocean  quest, 
The  new-born  mistress  of  the  world's  unrest, 
The  beauty  and  the  terror  of  the  lands. 

She  sees  the  fields  of  harvest  sown  for  her, 
She  sees  the  fortress  set  beside  her  gate, 
Her  hosts,  her  ships,  she  sees  through  storm  and 
fire; 

And  hers  all  gifts  of  gold  and  spice  and  myrrh, 
And  hers  all  hopes,  all  hills  and  shores  of  fate, 
And  hers  the  fame  of  Babylon  and  Tyre. 


234 


NEW  YORK  BAY  AT  DUSK 


Mildred  L.  McNeal-Sweeney 

Now  comes  the  fragrant  night  in  from  the  sea 

And  all  her  flowery  purples  soon  unfolds, 
Like  April-countries,  violet  sown,  where  we 

May  have  the  hush  the  eager  time  withholds. 
Methinks  heaven  sometimes  takes  the  world  aside 

And  lends  a  happy  ear  to  all  it  says — 
Soothing  its  great  unrest,  and  for  its  pride 

Showing  again  the  simple  fields  of  praise. 
This  starry-lighted  island  is  no  more 

The  quick  and  restless  city  of  my  task; 
It  dreams  with  me  and  what  may  be  in  store 

For  either,  we  do  neither  care  nor  ask, 
Leaving  the  dear  fulfilment  of  my  youth 
In  the  safe  care  of  thought  and  time  and  truth. 


235 


ON  THE  BAY 

Richard  Watson  Gilder 

This  watery  vague  how  vast !    This  misty  globe, 
Seen  from  this  center  where  the  ferry  plies, — 
It  plies,  but  seems  to  poise  in  middle  air, — 
Soft  gray  below  gray  heavens,  and  in  the  West 
A  rose-gray  memory  of  the  sunken  sun; 
And,  where  gray  water  touches  grayer  sky, 
A  band  of  darker  gray  pricked  out  with  lights, — 
A  diamond-twinkling  circlet  bounding  all; 
And  where  the  statue  looms,  a  quenchless  star; 
And  where  the  lighthouse,  a  red,  pulsing  flame; 
While  the  great  bridge  its  starry  diadem 
Shows  through  the  gray,  itself  in  grayness  lost ! 


236 


RETURN  TO  NEW  YORK 


John  Hall  Wheelock 

Far  and  free  o'er  the  lifting  sea,  the  lapsing  wastes  and 
the  waves  that  roam, 

Hour  by  hour  with  sleepless  power  the  keel  has  fur- 
rowed the  soft,  sad  foam; 

Slowly  now,  with  steadier  prow,  she  steals  through  the 
dim  gray  fog-banks  home. 

Faint  and  far  from  across  the  bar  the  first  lines  burn 

of  the  cloudy  day, 
From  whistle  and  horn  in  the  twilit  morn  low  murmurs 

are  wafted  across  the  bay. 
The  fleet,  sweet  swing  of  the  sea-bird's  wing  beats 

down  the  darkness  and  dies  away. 

Dawn, — and  lo,  as  the  rifted  snow  that  melts  from  the 

sun  on  a  mountain  height, 
As  the  veils  from  a  bride  that  fall  and  divide,  the  fog 

veils  sunder  and  leave  in  sight, 
Like  Venice,  dim  on  the  water's  rim,  the  city,  my 

mother,  bared  and  bright. 

In  the  first  hours  her  stately  towers  and  clustered 

summits  show  faint  and  fair : 
Mother,  mother,  to  thee  and  none  other  the  heart 

cries  out  in  the  morning  there! 

237 


238  Return  to  New  York 


Solemnly,  slowly,  the  white  mists  wholly  fade,  and  the 
whole,  sweet  form  lies  bare. 

Hail,  all  hail,  with  the  dawn  for  veil,  the  sea  foi 

throne  and  the  stars  for  crown ! 
Mother,  thy  son,  his  journeying  done,  triumphantly 

here  at  thine  heart  bows  down; 
Love  that  sings,  on  the  sea-wind's  wings  runs  on  tc 

greet  thee  his  very  own. 


THE  NEW  COLOSSUS 


Emma  Lazarus 


Not  like  the  brazen  giant  of  Greek  fame, 

With  conquering  limbs  astride  from  land  to  land; 

Here  at  our  sea-washed,  sunset  gates  shall  stand 

A  mighty  woman  with  a  torch,  whose  flame 

Is  the  imprisoned  lightning,  and  her  name 

Mother  of  Exiles.    From  her  beacon-hand 

Glows  world-wide  welcome;  her  mild  eyes  command 

The  air-bridged  harbour  that  twin  cities  frame. 

"Keep,  ancient  lands,  your  storied  pomp!"  cries  she 

With  silent  lips.    "Give  me  your  tired,  your  poor, 

Your  huddled  masses  yearning  to  breathe  free, 

The  wretched  refuse  of  your  teeming  shore. 

Send  these,  the  homeless,  tempest-tost  to  me, 

I  lift  my  lamp  beside  the  golden  door!" 


239 


BARTHOLDI'S  PHAROS 
George  Alfred  Townsend 

Manhattan  Bay  in  glory  lay 

When  Verrazano  entered; 
His  heart  was  cold,  on  thoughts  of  gold 

And  ivory  concentred : 
"Now  go  about  and  sail  we  out! — 

Although  this  scene  entrances; 
For  we  Italians  seek  rich  mines 

To  satisfy  King  Francis." 

The  Portugee  came  in  from  sea, 

Sir  Estevan  de  Gomez; 
"I  smell,"  said  he,  "no  spicery 

Nor  gum,  such  as  at  home  is; 
King  Charles  of  Spain,  he  would  raise  Cain 

And  cuss-words  use  terrific, 
If  we  clove  not  this  granite  main 

To  cloves  of  the  Pacific. " 


The  Half -Moon  next  our  harbor  vexed — 
The  Dutchman  made  appearance — 

The  Northwest  Passage  was  his  text, 
And  Albany  his  clearance; 

The  Indian  damsels  pleased  his  ways, — 
He  was  a  gay  deceiver, — 


Bartholdi's  Pharos 


241 


And  nothing  met  his  sordid  praise 
But  buffalo  and  beaver. 

Next  came  Lord  Howe,  guns  at  his  prow, 

His  nose  and  clothes  vermilion, 
With  Hessian  bayonets,  to  plough 

The  hills  around  new  Ilion; 
Seven  years  the  fleet  stayed  here  to  eat, — 

King  George  he  paid  the  ration, — 
Till  French  and  Yankees  down  the  street 

Saw  an  evacuation. 

The  artisan  American 

Came  now — a  buoyant  schemer — 
With  fleets  of  fire-winged  birds  to  span 

The  shores  with  many  a  steamer. 
At  Fulton's  wand  our  sparkling  pond 

Leaped  into  life  and  duty, 
But  nothing  came  to  correspond 

Unto  the  sense  of  Beauty. 

The  gold  we  made,  the  South-Sea  trade, 

The  peltries  and  the  spices, 
And  mechanisms,  like  crystal  prisms, 

Refracted  our  devices. 
Yet  in  the  heart  the  spell  of  Art 

Slept,  like  the  winter  throstle, 
Or  Faith,  in  old  Diana's  mart, 

Awaiting  an  apostle. 

The  son  of  France  his  kindling  glance 
Threw  o'er  this  radiant  Edom, 

And  like  a  Bayard  of  romance 
Knelt  to  the  strength  of  Freedom; 

16 


Bartholdi's  Pharos 


He  saw  arise  athwart  our  skies 

A  Goddess  ever  living, 
Illumination  in  her  eyes, 

And  flame  to  darkness  giving. 

Lift  high  thy  torch  and  forward  march, 

0  dame  of  Revolution! — 
All  heaven  thy  triumphal  arch, 

All  progress  the  solution ; 
And  from  the  earth  and  all  its  dross 

May  man  behold  the  story — 
Friendship  is  pious  as  the  cross, 

And  only  Art  is  glory! 


AT  ELLIS  ISLAND 


Margaret  Chanler  Aldrich 

Across  the  land  their  long  lines  pass; 

More  souls  come  to  us  sun  by  sun, 
Each  ship  a  city  as  she  rides, 

Than  manned  the  march  of  Washington. 

From  ancient  states  where  burthens  lie 

Extortionate  upon  the  poor, 
Men  rise  like  flocks  from  leafless  woods, 

Then  flight  a  shadow  at  our  door. 

A  shadow  passing  life  by  life 

Into  the  morrow  of  our  race; 
What  know  we  of  the  unseen  minds? 

These  hands  have  riches  we  embrace. 

What  common  thought  so  many  moves  ? 

Our  laws  with  Liberty  are  brave; 
Beneath  them  men  will  take  content 

A  wage,  a  lodging,  and  a  grave. 

Strange  to  each  other  as  to  us, 
The  races  of  the  world  are  ours; 

No  sleepless  frontiers  here  impede 
A  secret  ballot's  sacred  powers. 

243 


244 


At  Ellis  Island 


Ye  patient  aliens !    Sifting  in 

Where  trades  a  fateful  welcome  burn, 
Bequeath  your  children  what  you  find — 

A  land  to  which  all  peoples  turn. 


"SCUM  O'  THE  EARTH" 
Robert  Haven  Schauffler 
i 

At  the  gate  of  the  West  I  stand, 
On  the  isle  where  the  nations  throng. 
We  call  them  "scum  o'  the  earth"; 

Stay,  are  we  doing  you  wrong, 
Young  fellow  from  Socrates'  land? — 
You,  like  a  Hermes  so  lissome  and  strong 
Fresh  from  the  Master  Praxiteles'  hand? 
So  you're  of  Spartan  birth? 
Descended,  perhaps,  from  one  of  the  band — 
Deathless  in  story  and  song — 
Who  combed  their  long  hair  at  Thermopylae's  pass? 
Ah,  I  forgot  the  straits,  alas ! 
More  tragic  than  theirs,  more  compassion- worth 
That  have  doomed  you  to  march  in  our  "immigrant 
class ' ' 

Where  you're  nothing  but  "scum  o'  the  earth." 

II 

You  Pole  with  the  child  on  your  knee, 
What  dower  brings  you  to  the  land  of  the  free? 

245 


••Scum  o9  the  Earth M 


Hark!  does  she  croon 
That  sad  little  tune 

That  Chopin  once  found  on  his  Polish  lea 

And  mounted  in  gold  for  you  and  me? 

Now  a  ragged  young  fiddler  answers 

In  wild  Czech  melody 

That  Dvorak  took  whole  from  the  dancers, 

And  the  heavy  faces  bloom 

In  the  wonderful  Slavic  way; 

The  little,  dull  eyes,  the  brows  a-gloom, 

Suddenly  dawn  like  the  day. 

While,  watching  these  folk  and  their  mystery, 

I  forget  they're  nothing  worth; 

That  Bohemians,  Slovaks,  Croatians, 

And  men  of  all  Slavic  nations 

Are  "polacks" — and  "scum  o'  the  earth." 

in 

Genoese  boy  of  the  level  brow, 

Lad  of  the  lustrous,  dreamy  eyes 

A-stare  at  Manhattan's  pinnacles  now 

In  a  first  sweet  shock  of  a  hushed  surprise; 

Within  your  far-rapt  seer's  eyes 

I  catch  the  glow  of  the  wild  surmise 

That  played  on  the  Santa  Maria's  prow 

In  that  still  grey  dawn, 

Four  centuries  gone, 

When  a  world  from  the  wave  began  to  rise. 

Oh,  it's  hard  to  foretell  what  high  emprise 

Is  the  goal  that  gleams 

When  Italy's  dreams 

Spread  wing  and  sweep  into  the  skies. 

Caesar  dreamed  him  a  world  ruled  well; 


44  Scum  of  the  Earth  M  247 


Dante  dreamed  Heaven  out  of  Hell; 

Angelo  brought  us  there  to  dwell ; 

And  you,  are  you  of  a  different  birth? — 

You're  only  a  "dago" — and  "scum  o'  the  earth"! 

IV 

Stay,  are  we  doing  you  wrong 

Calling  you  "scum  o'  the  earth," 

Man  of  the  sorrow-bowed  head, 

Of  the  features  tender  yet  strong, — 

Man  of  the  eyes  full  of  wisdom  and  mystery 

Mingled  with  patience  and  dread? 

Have  I  not  known  you  in  history, 

Sorrow-bowed  head? 

Were  you  the  poet-king,  worth 

Treasures  of  Ophir  unpriced? 

Were  you  the  prophet,  perchance,  whose  art 

Foretold  how  the  rabble  would  mock 

That  shepherd  of  spirits,  erelong, 

Who  should  carry  the  lambs  on  his  heart 

And  tenderly  feed  his  flock? 

Man — lift  that  sorrow-bowed  head. 

Lo!  'tis  the  face  of  the  Christ! 

The  vision  dies  at  its  birth. 
You're  merely  a  butt  for  our  mirth. 
You're  a  "sheeny" — and  therefore  despised 
And  rejected  as  "scum  o'  the  earth. " 

v 

Countrymen,  bend  and  invoke 

Mercy  for  us  blasphemers, 

For  that  we  spat  on  these  marvellous  folk, 


248  "  Scum  o*  the  Earth  M 


Nations  of  darers  and  dreamers, 

Scions  of  singers  and  seers, 

Our  peers,  and  more  than  our  peers. 

"Rabble  and  refuse, "  we  name  them 

And  "scum  o'  the  earth, "  to  shame  them. 

Mercy  for  us  of  the  few,  young  years, 

Of  the  culture  so  callow  and  crude, 

Of  the  hands  so  grasping  and  rude, 

The  lips  so  ready  for  sneers 

At  the  sons  of  our  ancient  more-than-peers. 

Mercy  for  us  who  dare  despise 

Men  in  whose  loins  our  Homer  lies; 

Mothers  of  men  who  shall  bring  to  us 

The  glory  of  Titian,  the  grandeur  of  Huss; 

Children  in  whose  frail  arms  shall  rest 

Prophets  and  singers  and  saints  of  the  West. 

Newcomers  all  from  the  eastern  seas, 

Help  us  incarnate  dreams  like  these. 

Forget,  and  forgive,  that  we  did  you  wrong. 

Help  us  to  father  a  nation,  strong 

In  the  comradeship  of  an  equal  birth, 

In  the  wealth  of  the  richest  bloods  of  earth. 


THE  HUDSON 


Starr  Hoyt  Nichols 

With  tranquil  majesty  our  river  flows 
From  lordly  Adirondack  Mountains  green, 
Where  muskrats  slink  and  otter  fish  unseen, 
And  antlered  stags  wait  for  their  lonely  does. 
How  vSwell  its  waters  as  it  grandly  goes 
By  cloudy  Catskill  through  West  Point's  ravine, 
Floating  rich  fleets  its  sculptured  banks  between, 
Toward  pillared  Palisades  past  Anthony's  Nose ! 
Next  laps  Manhattan's  wharves  in  light  caress, 
Blent   with  green    Neptune's  earth-surrounding 
streams 

And  dancing  by  the  city's  blithesomeness 
Gives  port  to  navies  where  the  high  gull  screams; 
Then  sinks  its  being  in  the  featureless  sea, 
As  souls  melt  theirs  in  death's  infinity. 


249 


THE  SHADOWY  CITY  LOOMS 


New  York  from  the  North  River 

Lloyd  Mifflin 

In  deepening  shades  the  haunting  vision  swims; 

A  denser  greyness  settles  o'er  the  stream; 
The  domes  are  veiled;  the  wondrous  City  dims — 
Dims  as  a  dream : 

The  night  transforms  it  to  a  palace  vast 

Lit  with  a  thousand  lamps  from  cryptic  wires; 
The  vaporous  walls  are  phantoms  of  the  Past, 
Strange  with  vague  spires : 

Huge,  peopled  monoliths  that  touch  the  skies, 

Whose  indeterminate  bases  baffle  sight, 
Each  with  its  Argus,  incandescent  eyes 
Pierces  the  night: 

Undreamt-of  heights  of  glimmering  marble  loom 

Like  some  enchanted  fabric  wrought  of  air; 
Gigantic  shafts  of  insubstantial  gloom 
Lift,  shadowy,  there: 

Could  fabled  Camelot  of  the  poet's  dream 

Surpass  these  towers  soaring  from  the  mist? — 
These  steel-ribbed  granite  miracles  that  gleam 
Dim  amethyst?  .  .  . 

250 


The  Shadowy  City  Looms  251 


Slow  on  the  tide,  from  murky  coves  remote, 

The  freighted  barges  move,  laboriously, 
While  some  palatial,  golden-lighted  boat 
Steams  for  the  sea : 

Now  that  the  moon  is  breaking  through  the  cloud 

The  radiant  halo  o'er  the  City  pales; 
Shimmer  the  dusky  wharves  with  mast  and  shroud 
And  furled  sails: 

Soft  strains  of  music,  hovering,  drift  away; 

In  cloudy  turrets  toll  the  spectral  bells; 
While  the  sea- voices,  from  the  wastes  of  grey, 
Send  faint  farewells: 

The  homing  sloops  are  sheltered  in  the  slip : 
The  silence  deepens;  and  up-stream,  afar, 
A  fading  lantern  on  an  anchored  ship 
Seems  a  lost  star. 


THE  CITY 


Marion  Couthouy  Smith 

Beside  the  shining  water,  serene  she  sits  in  state, 
Fronting  the  noonday  splendour,  keeping  the  New 

World's  gate; 
Mother  of  hope  and  promise,  city  of  light  and  dream, 
Smiling  in  beauty's  triumph,  changed  with  each  chang- 
ing gleam; 

Beside  the  shining  water,  she  draws  her  veil  of  mist 
Over  her  flashing  jewels,  opal  and  amethyst. 

In  twilight's  purple  vapour,  in  morning's  rain  of 
gold, 

Forever  round  her  island  walls  the  glittering  tides  are 
rolled ; 

And  the  great  sea's  utmost  secret,  the  river's  tenderer 
song, 

Sound  through  her  mingled  voices  the  changeful  year 
along. 

Like  doves  to  her  bosom  flocking,  the  proud  swift 

ships  come  home, 
Tracking  her  glassy  waters  with  arabesques  of  foam; 
And  to  her  heart's  strong  throbbing  a  thousand  hearts 

keep  time, 

Where  far  across  the  bay's  clear  stretch  is  borne  her 
silver  chime. 

252 


The  City 


253 


Indrawn  the  sullen  shadows  from  lapping  waters 
creep, 

Cold,  through  the  teeming  channels  where  her  life's 

stream  runs  deep; 
Indrawn,  her  breath  comes  faintly,  in  broken  sob 

and  moan, 

Slow,  through  her  up-tossed  thunders — a  secret 
monotone 

Sounding  from  dark  recesses  the  voice  of  want  and 
wrong, 

Till  her  mad,  sweet,  varied  music  seems  but  a  syren 
song; 

And  all  her  noonday  glories,  her  midnight  crown  of 
flame, 

Seem  but  the  false  regalia  of  anguish  and  of  shame; 
While  o'er  that  aching  tumult  she  draws  her  veil  of 
mist, 

With  the  mocking  gleam  of  jewels,  opal  and  ame- 
thyst. 

Still  by  the  shining  water,  serene  she  sits  in  state, 
Fronting  the  noonday  splendour,  keeping  the  New 
World's  gate; 

And  still  her  sun-wrought  signals  flash  from  her  lifted 
spires, 

And  still  beneath  the  lights  of  heaven  she  burns  her 
midnight  fires, 

And  the  proud,  swift  ships  flock  homeward,  and  hope- 
drawn  hearts  beat  time, 

As  far  across  the  bay's  clear  stretch  is  borne  her  silver 
chime. 


NEW  YORK 


Don  Marquis 

She  is  hot  to  the  sea  that  crouches  beside, 

Human  and  hot  to  the  cool  stars  peering  down, 
My  passionate  city,  my  quivering  town, 

And  her  dark  blood,  tide  upon  purple  tide, 

With  throbs  as  of  thunder  beats, 

With  leaping  rhythms  and  vast,  is  swirled 

Through  the  shaken  lengths  of  her  veined  streets — 
She  pulses,  the  heart  of  a  world 1 

I  have  thrilled  with  her  ecstasy,  agony,  woe — 
Hath  she  a  mood  that  I  do  not  know? 
The  winds  of  her  music  tumultuous  have  seized  me 
and  swayed  me, 
Have  lifted,  have  swung  me  around 
In  their  whirls  as  of  cyclonic  sound; 
Her  passions  have  torn  me  and  tossed  me  and  brayed 
me; 

Drunken  and  tranced  and  dazzled  with  visions  and 
gleams, 

I  have  spun  with  her  dervish  priests ; 
I  have  searched  to  the  souls  of  her  haunted  beasts 
And  found  love  sleeping  there; 
I  have  soared  on  the  wings  of  her  flashing  dreams; 
I  have  sunk  with  her  dull  despair; 

254 


New  York 


255 


I  have  sweat  with  her  travails  and  cursed  with  her 
pains ; 

I  have  swelled  with  her  foolish  pride; 
I  have  raged  through  a  thick  red  mist  at  one  with  her 
branded  Cains, 
With  her  broken  Christ s  have  died. 

0  beautiful  half -god  city  of  visions  and  love! 

0  hideous  half -brute  city  of  hate! 

0  wholly  human  and  baffled  and  passionate  town! 

The  throes  of  thy  burgeoning,  stress  of  thy  fight, 
Thy  bitter,  blind  struggle  to  gain  for  thy  body  a 
soul, 

1  have  known,  I  have  felt,  and  been  shaken  there- 

by! 

Wakened  and  shaken  and  broken, 
For  I  hear  in  thy  thunders  terrific  that  throb  through 
thy  rapid  veins 
The  beat  of  the  heart  of  a  world. 


BROOKLYN  BRIDGE  TOWERS 


(As  Unconnected) 
George  Alfred  Townsend 
Brontes 

Brother !  are  you  waiting 

Faithfully  for  me? 
Stand  fast  and  at  last 

I'll  reach  my  hair  to  thee. 
Though  of  vacant  sight, 

Blindly  we  are  feeling 
Tow'rd  each  other,  till  the  light, 

Through  our  sockets  stealing 
O'er  the  stream,  in  one  beam 

Shall  meet,  and  see! 

Arges 

Brother !  I  am  listening 

To  the  words  you  say, 
As  they  reach  me,  whistling 

Across  the  windy  bay. 
Though  my  feet  are  cold, 

And  they  long  divide  us, 
Here  I'll  hold  till  I  am  old; 

Our  echoes  shall  provide  us 
256 


Brooklyn  Bridge  Towers 

On  bounding  feet  a  pathway  fleet, 
Till  we  behold! 

Brontes 

Like  two  gates  asunder 

Something  swings  between. 
On  our  heads  the  thunder 

Strikes.    We  stand  serene! 
Earliest  on  our  brows, 

Still  the  latest  tarry 
The  rosy  clouds ;  the  birds  in  crowds 

Sail  round  to  see  us  marry. 
We  will  win,  though,  my  twin, 

Waves  intervene. 

Arges 

Hark,  behind !  the  churches 

Faintly  lift  their  bells. 
And  far  below  come  and  go 

The  city's  hollow  swells; 
Frightened  ferry  fleets 

Disappear  in  vapour, 
And  the  camps  of  twinkling  lamps 

Struggle  for  a  taper. 
To  them  all,  starry  tall, 

We  are  sentinels ! 

Brontes 

Aye !  I  cannot  see  them, 

Yet  I  feel  them  there; 
And  clambering  stars  their  silver  bars 

Wind  o'er  me  like  a  stair. 


Brooklyn  Bridge  Towers 

Brother,  does  a  pulse 

Start  not  in  thy  shoulder, 
For  a  mystic  destiny, — 

Something  better,  bolder, — 
When  the  rainbow  its  skein 

Twineth  in  air? 

Arges 

Yes !  A  host  of  spirits 

In  procession  creep 
O'er  me  silently, 

From  darkened  deeps  of  sleep. 
Far  away  I  hear 

Wheels  imperious  driven 
Up  the  heights  of  the  atmosphere, 

By  the  image  of  Heaven! 
His  path  we  span,  and,  brother !  Man 

Is  the  charioteer ! 


BROOKLYN  BRIDGE  AT  DAWN 


Richard  Le  Gallienne 

Out  of  the  cleansing  night  of  stars  and  tides, 
Building  itself  anew  in  the  slow  dawn, 
The  long  sea-city  rises :  night  is  gone, 

Day  is  not  yet;  still  merciful,  she  hides 

Her  summoning  brow,  and  still  the  night-car  glides 
Empty  of  faces;  the  night-watchmen  yawn 
One  to  the  other,  and  shiver  and  pass  on, 

Nor  yet  a  soul  over  the  great  bridge  rides. 

Frail  as  a  gossamer,  a  thing  of  air, 
A  bow  of  shadow  o'er  the  river  flung, 

Its  sleepy  masts  and  lonely  lapping  flood ; 
Who,  seeing  thus  the  bridge  a-slumber  there, 
Would  dream  such  softness,  like  a  picture  hung, 
Is  wrought  of  human  thunder,  iron  and  blood? 


259 


THE  TOWERS  OF  MANHATTAN 


Don  Marquis 

On  the  middle  arch  of  the  bridge  I  stood 

And  mused,  as  the  twilight  failed ; — 

The  bridge  that  swings  and  sings  'twixt  tide  and  sky 

Like  a  harp  that  the  sea-winds  sweep ; — 

Night  flooded  in  from  the  bay 

With  billow  on  billow  of  shadow  and  beauty, 

Wave  upon  wave  of  illusion  and  dusk, 

And  before  me  apparelled  in  splendor, 

Banded  with  loops  of  light, 

Clothed  on  with  purple  and  magic, 

Rose  the  tall  towers  of  Manhattan, 

Wonderful  under  the  stars. 

Whence  has  this  miracle  sprung 

To  challenge  the  skies  ? 

From  the  plinth  of  this  girdled  island, 

Guarded  by  sentinel  waters, 

How  has  this  glory  arisen? 

Whence  is  the  faith,  and  what  is  the  creed,  that  has 
dowered 

The  dumb  brute  rock  and  the  sullen  iron 
With  a  beauty  so  bold  and  vital, 
A  grace  so  vivid  and  real  ? 

260 


The  Towers  of  Manhattan  261 


Whence  the  strong  wings  of  this  lyric  that  soars  like  a 
song  in  stone? 

For  the  builders  builded  in  blindness; 
Little  they  thought  of  the  ultimate 
Uses  of  beauty ! 

Little  they  kenned  and  nothing  they  recked  of  the 

raptures 
Of  conscious  and  masterful  art ; 
They  builded  blinder  than  they  who  raised 
The  naively  blasphemous  challenge  of  Babel ; 
For  they  wrought  in  the  sordid  humor 
Of  greed,  and  the  lust  of  power ; 
They  wrought  in  the  heat  of  the  bitter 
Battle  for  gold; 

And  some  of  them  ground  men's  lives  to  mortar, 

Taking  the  conqueror's  toll, 

From  the  veins  of  the  driven  millions; 

Of  curses  and  tears  they  builded, 

Cruelty  and  crime  and  sorrow — 

And  behold !  by  a  baffling  magic 

The  work  of  their  hands  transmuted 

To  temples  and  towers  that  are  crowned 

'With  a  glamour  transcendent 

That  lifts  up  the  heart  like  the  smile  of  a  god ! 

The  dust  is  the  dust,  and  forever 
Receiveth  its  own; 

But  the  dreams  of  a  man  or  a  people 
Forever  survive; 

These  builders,  their  crimes  and  their  curses, 
Their  greed  and  their  sordid  endeavor, 
Lie  in  the  dust, 
Dead  in  the  dust. 


262         The  Towers  of  Manhattan 


But  the  vision,  the  dream,  and  the  glory 
Remain: 

Triumphantly  over  all 

Rises  the  secret  hope, 

Rises  the  baffled  illusion, 

Rises  the  broken  dream 

That  hid  in  the  heart  of  the  conquered, 

That  dwelt  in  the  conqueror's  breast; 

By  the  side  of  each  man  as  he  labored, 

Unseen  and  unknown, 

Labored  his  dream; 

Now,  eminent,  fronting  the  morning, 

Mysterious,  clothed  with  the  night, 

Rises  the  crushed  aspiration, 

The  unconscious  and  scarcely  articulate  prayer, 

Rises  the  faith  forgotten, 

Triumphs  the  spurned  ideal, 

Rises  the  god  denied, 

Conquers  the  creed  betrayed, 

Rises  the  baffled  spirit 

Flowering  in  visible  durable  marvel  of  stone  and  of 
steel, 

Miraculous  under  the  heavens, 
Wonderful  under  the  stars. 

Nay,  mock  at  the  gods  if  you  will, 

Even  forget  their  existence, 

But  always  they  labor  in  secret 

To  bring  to  a  sudden  and  golden  achievement 

Their  subtle  intentions; 

And  lo!  from  the  dung  a  lily! 

A  temple  out  of  the  clay! 


The  Towers  of  Manhattan 


A  city  out  of  the  rabble ! 
And  lo !  the  strong  hands  of  Manhattan, 
Mightily  lifted  up 
To  grasp  at  the  gold  of  the  sunset 
For  a  crown  for  her  head] 


THE  MORAINE 


John  Curtis  Underwood 

Look  down,  love,  from  the  Bridge's  height 
And  see  the  buildings  piled  below, 

A  heap  of  pebbles  in  the  night 

Where  stars  like  fireflies  come  and  go. 

Here  by  the  border  of  the  sea 

Where  life  has  left  its  last  moraine, 

The  soul  of  man  eternally 

Resigns  its  pleasure  and  its  pain. 

The  glacier  glides  into  the  deep, 

An  endless  river  of  the  years, 
From  the  far  mountains  where  they  sleep 

Who  first  begot  our  hopes  and  fears. 

Cave-man,  Crusader,  scientist, 
They  pass  as  pass  the  centuries; 

And  teach  these  stones  to  still  persist 
To  tally  time's  infinities. 

What  does  it  all  mean?    ^Eons  dear 
Have  left  Manhattan  here  to-day 

That  we  might  meet.    Our  home  is  here 
To  share  with  others  while  we  may. 


264 


THAT  DEAR  CONEY 


Chester  Firkins 

A  city  walled  against  the  golden  day, 

A  city  starless  in  the  silver  night, 
Hath  reared  in  glory  down  her  teeming  bay, 
Past  many  a  roaring  quay, 

Electra's  Temple  pinnacled  with  light. 

Fountains  ablaze  and  whirling  wheels  of  fire, 
A  phantom  garden  by  the  rumbling  sea ; 

Not  Ctesiphon  nor  flame-adoring  Tyre, 

Not  Carthage's  red  pyre 

E'er  burned  the  night  to  such  a  brilliancy. 

Bright  mirrored  towers  tremble  in  the  wave; 

My  black  prow  cleaves  through  faery  citadels; 
I  gaze  upon  a  deep,  enchanted  pave, 
Some  sea-tombed  city's  grave, 

Whence  music  'mid  the  voice  of  revel  wells. 

The  ghostly  castles  crumble;  but  the  cry, 
The  song,  the  shouting  grow;  and  far  away 

Weird  echo-voices  call  me  as  they  fly, 
"Come!    Join  the  night  city  at  her  play! 
Forget  the  dark  of  day; 

For  here  the  ways  of  light  and  laughter  lie. " 


265 


CITY  OF  SHIPS 


Walt  Whitman 

City  of  ships ! 

(0  the  black  ships !    0  the  fierce  ships ! 

0  the  beautiful  sharp-bow'd  steamships  and  sail- 

ships  !) 

City  of  the  world!  (for  all  races  are  here, 

All  the  lands  of  the  earth  make  contributions  here;) 

City  of  the  sea !  city  of  hurried  and  glittering  tides ! 

City  whose  gleeful  tides  continually  rush  or  recede, 
whirling  in  and  out  with  eddies  and  foam! 

City  of  wharves  and  stores — city  of  tall  facades  of 
marble  and  iron! 

Proud  and  passionate  city — meddlesome,  mad,  extra- 
vagant city! 

Spring  up,  0  city — not  for  peace  alone,  but  be  indeed 

yourself,  warlike! 
Fear  not — submit  to  no  models  but  your  own,  0 

city! 

Behold  me — incarnate  me  as  I  have  incarnated 
you! 

1  have  rejected  nothing  you  offer'd  me — whom  you 

adopted  I  have  adopted, 
Good  or  bad  I  never  question  you — I  love  all — I  do 
not  condemn  anything, 
266 


City  of  Ships  267 

I  chant  and  celebrate  all  that  is  yours — yet  peace  no 
more, 

In  peace  I  chanted  peace,  but  now  the  drum  of  war  is 
mine, 

War,  red  war  is  my  song  through  your  streets,  O 
city! 


THE  INDIA  WHARF 


Sara  Teasdale 

Here  in  the  velvet  stillness 

The  wide  sown  fields  fall  to  the  faint  horizon, 

Sleeping  in  starlight  .  .  . 

A  year  ago  we  walked  in  the  jangling  city 

Together  .  .  .  forgetful. 

One  by  one  we  crossed  the  avenues, 

Rivers  of  light,  roaring  in  tumult, 

And  came  to  the  narrow,  knotted  streets. 

Through  the  tense  crowd 

We  went  aloof,  ecstatic,  walking  in  wonder, 

Unconscious  of  our  motion. 

Forever  the  foreign  people  with  dark,  deep-seeing 

eyes 

Passed  us  and  passed. 

Lights  and  foreign  words  and  foreign  faces, 
I  forgot  them  all; 

I  only  felt  alive,  defiant  of  all  death  and  sorrow, 
Sure  and  elated. 

That  was  the  gift  you  gave  me  .  .  . 

The  streets  grew  still  more  tangled, 

And  led  us  at  last  to  water  black  and  glossy, 

268 


The  Indian  Wharf 


269 


Flecked  here  and  there  with  lights,  faint  and  far  off. 

There  on  a  shabby  building  was  a  sign 

"The  India  Wharf"  .  .  .  and  we  turned  back. 

I  always  felt  we  could  have  taken  ship 

And  crossed  the  bright  green  seas 

To  dreaming  cities  set  on  sacred  streams 

And  palaces 

Of  ivory  and  scarlet. 


NEW  YORK 


Wendell  Phillips  Stafford 

O  Titan  daughter  crouching  by  the  sea, 

Playing  with  ships  and  channelling  the  sands 
And  gathering  evermore  in  eager  hands 

Poor  shells  and  pebbles  for  thy  jewelry, 

Unheedful  how  the  nations  swarm  to  thee 
From  all  the  shallows  of  distressful  lands, — 
More  busy  braiding  weeds  in  idle  bands 

Than  mothering  the  millions  at  thy  knee, — 

Oh,  when  thy  destiny  shall  bid  thee  rise, 

And  thy  god-heart  with  love  of  man  shall  burn, 
How  towards  thy  feet  the  human  tides  will  yearn, 

While  all  the  muses  waken  in  thine  eyes, 
And  floods  of  blessing  leave  thy  lifted  urn 

As  April  mornings  overflow  the  skies ! 


270 


THE  EAST  RIVER  BRIDGE  MARKET 


James  Oppenheim 

The  riveted  rafters  drip  the  rain  and  the  twilight  pave 

is  puddle  and  mud, 
But  the  peddlers'  carts  are  huddled  again  and  the 

crowd  jams  past  in  a  woollen  flood — 
They  weave  a  pattern  of  reds  and  blacks,  women  in 

shawls  and  men  in  coats, 
Women  who  trudge  with  broken  backs  and  wisps  of 

men  with  bearded  throats. 

From  jets  cart-held  the  wind-tossed  gas  flames  a 

shadowy  fire  that  traces 
Poverty's  stamp  on  the  forms  that  pass,  misery's 

blight  on  the  world-old  faces — 
Pain,  that  sculptor  of  men,  has  creased  many  a  line 

in  many  a  brow, 
Till  he,  with  love  divine,  released  a  splendour  which  is 

shining  now. 

For  under  the  greys  and  the  saffrons  daubed  on  the 
ancient  faces,  life  looks  through, 

Every  atom  of  soil  absorbed  in  the  human  stir  and  the 
struggle  new — 

These  as  by  red-hot  rivets  are  clutched  to  the  nerve- 
live  business  thrilling  the  hour — 
271 


272       The  East  River  Bridge  Market 


Here  where  the  strings  of  the  purse  are  touched  the 
brain  becomes  a  working  power. 

Where  have  I  mixed  in  this  scene  before?    In  what 

strange  world,  in  what  strange  age? 
Lo,  in  the  flesh  of  life's  uproar  these  people  float  from 

a  printed  page, 
Rises  Isaiah,  Rizpah,  Ruth,  prophet,  and  woman-in- 

love,  and  mother, 
See  where  Isaiah  is  visioning  Truth  as  he  peddles  fish 

to  Abel's  brother. 

Worlds  away  and  worlds  behind  all  living  worlds  these 

souls  assemble, 
Rizpah  there  with  her  dead  to  mind,  Ruth  with  her 

yearning  heart  a-tremble! 
What  to  these  are  Wall  Street's  currents  of  electricity 

circling  Earth? 
What  to  these  are  Broadway's  torrents  of  roaring  work 

and  rippling  mirth? 

By  what  nerve  do  these  souls  connect  with  the  huge 

skyscraping  towers  of  steel 
That  girdle  Earth  with  their  intellect,  a  might  that 

world-end  millions  feel? 
What  place  have  these  in  the  world  we  sense  and 

glimpse  in  the  morning  paper's  print  ? 
Lost,  they  are  lost  in  a  world  immense,  and  who  is 

aware  of  their  strife  and  stint? 

And  yet  America's  mightiest  age  shall  be  child  of  these 

wonderful  mothers  of  men — 
Each  in  her  realm  is  queen  and  sage,  and  shall  remake 

the  world  again — 


The  East  River  Bridge  Market  273 

Her  babes  are  the  masters  of  dim  To-morrows,  her 
daughters  the  wives  and  teachers  to  come, 

Out  of  her  woes  and  her  infinite  sorrows  she  breeds 
the  Lincolns  of  the  Slum. 

Out  of  the  simple  and  common  clay,  out  of  the  very 

earth  of  Earth, 
Now,  as  ever,  there  break  away  spirits  that  feed  the 

world's  great  dearth — 
Take  the  startling  gas-fire  glow,  stand,  stand  still,  let 

me  see  your  face ! 
Mother,  that  your  strange  heart  might  know  you  are 

the  fount  of  a  future  race! 
18 


LOWER  NEW  YORK— A  STORM 


Don  Marquis 

White  wing'd  below  the  darkling  clouds 

The  driven  sea-gulls  wheel; 
The  roused  sea  flings  a  storm  against 

The  towers  of  stone  and  steel. 

The  very  voice  of  ocean  rings 

Along  the  shaken  street — 
Dusk,  storm,  and  beauty  whelm  the  world 

Where  sea  and  city  meet — 

But  what  care  they  for  flashing  wings, 

Quick  beauty,  loud  refrain, 
These  huddled  thousands,  deaf  and  blind 

To  all  but  greed  and  gain? 


274 


IN  TRINITY  CHURCHYARD  AT  GUNSET 


Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr. 

How  still  they  sleep  within  the  city  moil 

In  their  old  churchyard  with  its  sighing  trees, 
Where  sometimes  through  the  din  a  twilight  breeze 

Makes  one  forget  the  busy  streets  of  toil; 

But  they  have  little  thought  of  worldly  spoil 
Or  the  great  gain  of  mortal  victories, 
Their  hopes,  their  dreams,  are  cold  and  dead  as 
these 

Quaint,  time-worn  gravestones  crumbling  on  the  soil. 

Yet  they  once  lived  and  struggled  years  ago ; 

Their  hearts  beat  madly  as  these  hearts  of  ours — 
And  now  is  all  undone  in  dreamless  rest  ? 
See,  a  great  city  stands  against  the  glow — 
Their  city,  they  who  here  beneath  the  flowers 
Have  known  so  long  God's  gift  of  peace,  most 
blest! 


275 


THE  WALL  STREET  PIT,  May,  1901 


Edwin  Markham 

I  see  a  hell  of  faces  surge  and  whirl, 

Like  maelstrom  in  the  ocean — faces  lean 

And  fleshless  as  the  talons  of  a  hawk — 

Hot  faces  like  the  faces  of  the  wolves 

That  track  the  traveller  fleeing  through  the  night — 

Grim  faces  shrunken  up  and  fallen  in, 

Deep-ploughed  like  weather-eaten  bark  of  oak — 

Drawn  faces  like  the  faces  of  the  dead, 

Grown  suddenly  old  upon  the  brink  of  Earth. 

Is  this  a  whirl  of  madmen  ravening, 
And  blowing  bubbles  in  their  merriment? 
Is  Babel  come  again  with  shrieking  crew 
To  eat  the  dust  and  drink  the  roaring  wind? 
And  all  for  what  ?    A  handful  of  bright  sand 
To  buy  a  shroud  with  and  a  length  of  earth? 

Oh,  saner  are  the  hearts  on  stiller  ways! 
Thrice  happier  they  who,  far  from  these  wild  hours, 
Grow  softly  as  the  apples  on  a  bough. 
Wiser  the  ploughman  with  his  scudding  blade, 
Turning  a  straight  fresh  furrow  down  a  field — 
Wiser  the  herdsman  whistling  to  his  heart, 
In  the  long  shadows  at  the  break  of  day — 

276 


The  Wall  Street  Pit 


Wiser  the  fisherman  with  quiet  hand, 
Slanting  his  sail  against  the  evening  wind. 

The  swallow  sweeps  back  from  the  south  again, 

The  green  of  May  is  edging  all  the  boughs, 

The  shy  arbutus  glimmers  in  the  wood, 

And  yet  this  hell  of  faces  in  the  town — 

This  storm  of  tongues,  this  whirlpool  roaring  on, 

Surrounded  by  the  quiet  of  the  hills; 

The  great  calm  stars  forever  overhead, 

And,  under  all,  the  silence  of  the  dead! 


PAN  IN  WALL  STREET 


Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

Just  where  the  Treasury's  marble  front 

Looks  over  Wall  Street's  mingled  nations, — 
Where  Jews  and  Gentiles  most  are  wont 

To  throng  for  trade  and  last  quotations, — 
Where,  hour  by  hour,  the  rates  of  gold 

Outrival,  in  the  ears  of  people, 
The  quarter-chimes,  serenely  tolled 

From  Trinity's  undaunted  steeple; — 

Even  there  I  heard  a  strange,  wild  strain 

Sound  high  above  the  modern  clamour, 
Above  the  cries  of  greed  and  gain, 

The  curbstone  war,  the  auction's  hammer, — 
And  swift,  on  Music's  misty  ways, 

It  led,  from  all  this  strife  for  millions, 
To  ancient,  sweet  do-nothing  days 

Among  the  kirtle-robed  Sicilians. 

And  as  it  stilled  the  multitude, 

And  yet  more  joyous  rose,  and  shriller, 

I  saw  the  minstrel,  where  he  stood 
At  ease  against  a  Doric  pillar: 

One  hand  a  droning  organ  played, 

The  other  held  a  Pan's-pipe  (fashioned 
278 


Pan  in  Wall  Street 


279 


Like  those  of  old)  to  lips  that  made 

The  reeds  give  out  that  strain  impassioned. 

'Twas  Pan  himself  had  wandered  here 

A-strolling  through  this  sordid  city, 
And  piping  to  the  civic  ear 

The  prelude  of  some  pastoral  ditty! 
The  demigod  had  crossed  the  seas, — 

From  haunts  of  shepherd,  nymph,  and  satyr 
And  Syracusan  times, — to  these 

Far  shores  and  twenty  centuries  later. 

A  ragged  cap  was  on  his  head : 

But — hidden  thus — there  was  no  doubting 
That,  all  with  crispy  locks  o'erspread, 

His  gnarled  horns  were  somewhere  sprouting; 
His  club-feet,  cased  in  rusty  shoes, 

Were  crossed,  as  on  some  frieze  you  see  them, 
And  trousers,  patched  of  divers  hues, 

Concealed  his  crooked  shanks  beneath  them. 

He  filled  the  quivering  reeds  with  sound, 

And  o'er  his  mouth  their  changes  shifted, 
And  with  his  goat's-eyes  looked  around 

Where'er  the  passing  current  drifted; 
And  soon,  as  on  Trinacrian  hills 

The  nymphs  and  herdsmen  ran  to  hear  him, 
Even  now  the  tradesmen  from  their  tills, 

With  clerks  and  porters,  crowded  near  him. 

The  bulls  and  bears  together  drew 

From  Jauncey  Court  and  New  Street  Alley, 

As  erst,  if  pastorals  be  true, 

Came  beasts  from  every  wooded  valley; 


28o 


Pan  in  Wall  Street 


The  random  passers  stayed  to  list, — 
A  boxer  JEgon,  rough  and  merry, — 

A  Broadway  Daphnis,  on  his  tryst 
With  Nais  at  the  Brooklyn  Ferry. 

A  one-eyed  Cyclops  halted  long 

In  tattered  cloak  of  army  pattern, 
And  Galatea  joined  the  throng, — 

A  blowsy,  apple-vending  slattern; 
While  old  Silenus  staggered  out 

From  some  new-fangled  lunch-house  handy, 
And  bade  the  piper,  with  a  shout, 

To  strike  up  Yankee  Doodle  Dandy ! 

A  newsboy  and  a  peanut-girl 

Like  little  Fauns  began  to  caper: 
His  hair  was  all  in  tangled  curl, 

Her  tawny  legs  were  bare  and  taper; 
And  still  the  gathering  larger  grew, 

And  gave  its  pence  and  crowded  nigher, 
While  aye  the  shepherd-minstrel  blew 

His  pipe,  and  struck  the  gamut  higher. 

O  heart  of  Nature,  beating  still 

With  throbs  her  vernal  passion  taught  her, — 
Even  here,  as  on  the  vine-clad  hill, 

Or  by  the  Arethusan  water ! 
New  forms  may  fold  the  speech,  new  lands 

Arise  within  these  ocean-portals, 
But  Music  waves  eternal  wands, — 

Enchantress  of  the  souls  of  mortals! 

So  thought  I, — but  among  us  trod 
A  man  in  blue,  with  legal  baton, 


Pan  in  Wall  Street 


281 


And  scoffed  the  vagrant  demigod, 

And  pushed  him  from  the  step  I  sat  on. 

Doubting  I  mused  upon  the  cry, 

14 Great  Pan  is  dead!" — and  all  the  people 

Went  on  their  ways : — and  clear  and  high 
The  quarter  sounded  from  the  steeple. 


A  FAUN  IN  WALL  STREET 
John  Myers  O'Hara 

What  shape  so  furtive  steals  along  the  dim 

Bleak  street,  barren  of  throngs,  this  day  of  June; 

This  day  of  rest,  when  all  the  roses  swoon 
In  Attic  vales  where  dryads  wait  for  him  ? 
What  sylvan  this,  and  what  the  stranger  whim 

That  lured  him  here  this  golden  afternoon; 

Ways  where  the  dusk  has  fallen  oversoon 
In  the  deep  canyon,  torrentless  and  grim? 

Great  Pan  is  far,  O  mad  estray,  and  these 

Bare  walls  that  leap  to  heaven  and  hide  the  skies 

Are  fanes  men  rear  to  other  deities ; 

Far  to  the  East  the  haunted  woodland  lies, 

And  cloudless  still,  from  cyclad-dotted  seas, 
Hymettus  and  the  hills  of  Hellas  rise. 


282 


THE  CURB-BROKERS 


Florence  Wilkinson  Evans 

Hail,  ye  frenzied  creatures,  antic,  mask-like  figures, 
Shouting  gibberish  symbols,  wheat  and  corn  and 
cotton. 

Lo,  the  whole  world  is  a  maniac  vision, 
Worm-eaten  by  black  hopes  and  wriggling  poison- 
ous alarms; 
Neither  flesh  nor  blood  nor  God  nor  devil, 
One  great  brazen  throat  and  dollar-signs  for  arms. 
Hail,  ye  frenzied  creatures, 
'Tis  a  blue  autumn  morn ! 

And  did  ye  ever  walk  among  the  rustling  rows  of 
corn? 


283 


IN  LOWER  NEW  YORK 


Mrs.  Schuyler  Van  Rensselaer 

Stand  here  with  me.    The  throngs  dissolve  away. 

The  sunset  fades.    A  single  star  grows  bright. 

The  moon  as  purely  sheds  her  balm  of  light 
Through  these  cliff-corridors  as  on  the  bay 
Pure-spread  beyond  them.    Sea-breeze  murmurs  say, 

Not  all  of  time  is  pledged  for  gain,  the  night 

Means  sleeping  even  here,  and  in  despite 
Of  gold  and  greed  will  dawn  a  Sabbath-day. 

There  is  no  peace  like  this,  the  deep  repose 

Of  citadels  of  haggard  restlessness. 
Prairie  and  mountain-top  and  twilit  snows 

Breathe  of  the  benison  of  silence  less 
Than  these  tired  streets,  dazed  with  the  noise  of  men, 

When  the  calm  darkness  bids  them  rest  again. 


284 


WHEN  BETSY  COMES  DOWN-TOWN 


Louise  Morgan  Sill 

When  Betsy  comes  down-town, 
From  her  remote  suburban  lair, 
There  seems  to  blow  a  brighter  air; 
The  grimy  streets  seem  debonair 

For  touching  of  her  gown; 
And  under  muslin  frills  her  feet, 
As  tiny  and  as  silvery  fleet 
As  some  gazelle's,  go  tapping  sweet 

When  Betsy  comes  down-town . 

When  Betsy  comes  down-town, 

The  musty  volumes  mountain-high, 
The  shelves  where  dust  and  papers  lie, 
Seem  ill  to  suit  a  butterfly 

Fresh  from  the  meadow  brown — 
But  when  she  goes  a  lingering  light, 
Reflection  from  the  vision  bright, 
Makes  everything  divinely  right 

That  seemed  askew  down-town. 


285 


IN  NEW  YORK 


John  Hall  Wheelock 

Within  the  modern  world,  deformed  and  vast, 
Lurks  everlasting,  though  all  men  deny, 

The  awful  force  that  in  the  ages  past 

Walked  on  the  waves  and  cried  on  Calvary. 

I  feel  it  in  the  crowded  city  street 

'Mid  iron  walls  and  wheels  and  clanging  cars, 
I  feel  it  in  my  pulses  as  they  beat, 

The  monstrous  secret  that  propels  the  stars. 


286 


MONODY  ON  THE  ASTOR  HOUSE 


Franklin  P.  Adams 

Lament,  0  Muse,  and  heave  a  suspiration, 

Make  me  an  epicedium,  a  threne, 
An  ode  to  fit  my  humid  lachrimation, 

A  dirge  ultramarine ! 
For  heavy  I,  and  supercharged  with  woe, 
On  reading  that  the  Astor  House  must  go. 

Thou  noble  inn  where  oft  I  (Crys  of  "Louder") 
Repaired  to  find  a  frugal  bit  of  lunch ; 

Where  grew  the  city's  only  perfect  chowder 
And  hot  Jamaica  punch — 

So  deep  my  woe  that  thou  art  to  be  razed 

I  question  it  can  fittingly  be  phrazed. 

Farewell,  farewell !    If  Byron  I  may  borrow — 
I  read  of  thee  in  many  an  Alger  tome, 

Unthinking  that,  in  age  and  bowed  with  sorrow, 
I'd  spill  to  thee  a  pome; 

Unknowing  that  some  day  I  should  deplore 

The  announcement  that  thou  wert  to  be  no  more. 

Yet  though  my  trend  be  super-sentimental, 
Thine  end  I  truly  do  not  mind  a  bit ; 
287 


288        Monody  on  the  Astor  House 

My  grief  for  that  is  wholly  incidental, 

This  is  my  woe,  to  wit : 
The  riveting  and  blasting  that  I  hear — 
Shades  of  the  Woolworth  tower ! — another 


Lincoln  at  the  Astor  House,  February  19,  1861 

From  Harper's  Weekly,  February,  1861 


A  FORGOTTEN  BARD 

Clinton  Scollard 

In  a  dim  nook  beneath  the  street 
Where  Pine  and  noisy  Nassau  meet, 
This  little  book  of  song  I  found 
In  scarred  morocco  quaintly  bound . 
Each  musty  and  bemildewed  leaf 
Bespeaks  long  years  of  grime  and  grief; 
Long  years, — for  on  the  title  page 
A  dim  date  tells  the  volume's  age. 

Ah,  who  was  he,  the  bard  that  sung 
In  that  dead  century's  stately  tongue 
In  those  envanished  days  of  yore? — 
An  empty  name — I  know  no  more ! 
Yet  as  I  read  will  fancy  form 
A  face  whose  glow  is  fresh  and  warm, 
A  frank,  clear  eye  wherein  I  view 
A  nature  open,  genial,  true. 

Mayhap  he  dreamed  of  fame,  but  fate 
Has  barred  to  him  that  temple's  gate; 
He  loved, — was  loved, — for  one  divines 
An  answered  passion  in  his  lines; 
He  died,  ah,  yes,  he  died,  but  when 
He  ceased  to  walk  the  ways  of  men, 
19  289 


A  Forgotten  Bard 


Or  where  his  clay  with  mother  clay 
Commingles  sweetly,  who  can  say! 

In  pity  will  I  give  his  book 

A  not  too  lonely  study  nook, 

Where  kindly  gleams  of  light  may  play 

Across  it  of  a  wintry  day ; 

And  I  will  take  it  down  sometimes 

To  con  the  prim  and  polished  rhymes. — 

Will  thus,  when  the  grey  years  have  fled, 

Some  book  of  mine  be  housed  and  read? 


NATHAN  HALE 


Chester  Firkins 

Somewhere  beneath  the  thundering  city's  pave, 

An  unmarked  grave; 
Somewhere  in  the  vast  spaces  beyond  Time, 

A  fame  sublime; 
And  that  is  all  we  watchers  here  below 

May  dream  or  know 
Of  him,  the  tranquil  and  intrepid  soul 
Who  died  for  us  among  the  death-drum's  roll 

In  Henry  Rutgers'  orchard  long  ago. 


You've  been,  perchance,  in  Market  Street, 
Where  now  the  weary,  hurrying  feet 
Of  thousands  clatter,  day  by  day, 
To  join  the  throngs  of  East  Broadway; 
Where  creak  and  crash  of  car  and  dray 
Mingle  with  children's  voices  sweet ; 
Where  poverty  and  sorrow  meet, 
And  yet  where  some  seem  always  gay. 

Though  toil  and  tumult  wrap  you  'round, 
Tread  softly — it  is  holy  ground ! 
'Twas  in  September  of  the  year 
When  Liberty  first  lifted  clear 
291 


Nathan  Hale 


Her  daring  sword,  they  brought  him  here, 
And  slew  him  as  he  faced  them,  bound, 
And  buried  him  without  a  mound 
Or  yet  a  blossom  for  his  bier! 

Oh,  if  your  heart  as  mine  doth  burn, 
These  tenemental  walls  will  turn 
Into  a  yellowing  orchard  close, 
With  redcoat  men  in  silent  rows; 
And  he,  in  high,  serene  repose, 
Lifts  eyes  that  but  a  moment  yearn 
Toward  his  torn  letters  'mongst  the  fern 
As  proudly  to  his  doom  he  goes. 


Somewhere  beneath  the  thundering  city's  pave, 

An  unmarked  grave; 
But  is  not  the  great  city  o'er  him  sprent 

His  better  monument? 
These  mighty  sons  of  Caesar  and  of  Shem, 

He  died  for  them! 
The  tumult  of  the  hosts  he  helped  to  free, 
The  roar  of  the  wide  mart,  his  elegy, 

His  solemn  and  triumphant  requiem! 


DIGGING  FOUNDATIONS  AT  NIGHT 


Cortland  Street 

Harvey  Maitland  Watts 

Here,  where  the  forges  sound  their  giant  scale 

Of  thud  and  groan,  and  braziers  belch  their  smoke; 

In  depths,  unseen,  backs  bent,  nor  fear,  nor  quail 
The  myriads  toil;  bearing  in  cheer  the  yoke, 

Knowing  full  well  that  soon,  aloft,  will  rise 

Some  new  Aladdin's  dream,  scraping  the  very  skies. 


293 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  CORNICE 


Florence  Wilkinson  Evans 

Listen  to  me,  ye  creeping  ants  of  men, 
Because  of  human  hearts  I  snatched  and  slew, 
Because  of  blood  poured  out,  because  of  blood, 
I  am  drawn  close  to  you. 

Listen,  across  the  quivering  sea  of  roofs 
Thousands  of  miles — that  cry  along  the  wires ! 
Aerial  signals,  soundless  waves  of  air 
Heavy  with  import,  moan  of  steel-spun  spires! 

I  brood  above  the  costliness  of  the  task 
Through  which  these  human  creatures  fall  consumed. 
Men,  bow  the  head  before  the  dizzying  grave 
Whose  valour  and  toil  to  such  a  death  are  doomed. 

This  is  the  harvest  you  have  sowed ; 
Your  blood  is  mixed  with  mine,  with  mine; 
And  I,  who  break  you  on  my  fiery  wheel, 
Not  Moloch  am  I,  but  divine,  divine. 

The  pitiless  Angel  of  the  Mercenary? 
Nay,  for  I  too  am  great, 
Lifting  the  vast  hopes  of  the  modern  world 
As  on  the  knees  of  fate. 

294 


The  Angel  of  the  Cornice 


I  am  Winged  Victory  at  the  prow, 

Oh  ye  who  serve  the  God  of  force, 

Pilgrims  that  ride  the  deep  with  me, 

Ye,  too,  shall  learn  the  love  that  is  remorse. 


THE  WOOLWORTH  BUILDING 


Madison  Cawein 
Enormously  it  lifts 

Its  towers  against  the  splendour  of  the  west; 

Like  some  wild  dream  that  drifts 

Before  the  mind,  and  at  the  will's  behest, — 

Enchantment-based,  gigantic  steel  and  stone, — 

Is  given  permanence; 

A  concrete  fact, 

Complete,  alone, 

Glorious,  immense, 

Such  as  no  nation  here  on  earth  has  known: 
Epitomizing  all 

That  is  American,  that  stands  for  youth, 

And  strength  and  truth ; 

That's  individual, 

And  beautiful  and  free, — 

Resistless  strength  and  tireless  energy. 

Even  as  a  cataract, 
Its  superb  fact 

Suggests  vast  forces  Nature  builds  with — Joy, 
And  Power  and  Thought, 
She  to  her  aid  has  brought 
For  eons  past,  will  bring  for  eons  yet  to  be, 
Shaping  the  world  to  her  desire :  the  three 
296 


The  Woolworth  Building  297 


Her  counsellors  constantly, 

Her  architects,  through  whom  her  dreams  come 
true, — 

Her  workmen,  bringing  forth, 

With  toil  that  shall  not  cease, 

Mountains  and  plains  and  seas, 

That  make  the  Earth  the  glory  that  it  is : 

And,  one  with  these, 

Such  works  of  man  as  this, 

This  building,  towering  into  the  blue, 

A  beacon,  round  which  like  an  ocean  wide, 

Circles  and  flows  the  restless  human  tide. 


FROM  THE  WOOLWORTH  TOWER 


Sara  Teasdale 

Vivid  with  love,  eager  for  greater  beauty- 
Out  of  the  night  we  came 
Into  the  corridor,  brilliant  and  warm. 
A  metal  door  slides  open, 
And  the  lift  receives  us. 
Swiftly,  with  sharp  unswerving  flight 
The  car  shoots  upward, 
And  the  air,  swirling  and  angry, 
Howls  like  a  hundred  devils. 
Past  the  maze  of  trim  bronze  doors, 
Steadily  we  ascend 
I  cling  to  you 

Conscious  of  the  chasm  under  us, 

And  a  terrible  whirring  deafens  my  ears. 

The  flight  is  ended. 

We  pass  through  a  door  leading  onto  the  ledge — 

Wind,  night  and  space! 

Oh  terrible  height 

Why  have  we  sought  you  ? 

Oh  bitter  wind  with  icy  invisible  wings 

Why  do  you  beat  us? 

Why  would  you  bear  us  away? 

298 


The  Woolworth  Tower,  1915 

From  an  etching  by  Henri  de  Ville 


From  the  Woolworth  Tower 


299 


We  look  through  the  miles  of  air, 

The  cold  blue  miles  between  us  and  the  city, 

Over  the  edge  of  eternity  we  look 

On  all  the  lights, 

A  thousand  times  more  numerous  than  the  stars; 

Oh  lines  and  loops  of  light  in  unwound  chains 

That  mark  for  miles  and  miles 

The  vast  black  mazy  cobweb  of  the  streets; 

Near  us  clusters  and  splashes  of  living  gold 

That  change  far  off  to  bluish  steel 

Where  the  fragile  lights  on  the  Jersey  shore 

Tremble  like  drops  of  wind-stirred  dew. 

The  strident  noises  of  the  city 

Floating  up  to  us 

Are  hallowed  into  whispers. 

Ferries  cross  through  the  darkness 

Weaving  a  golden  thread  into  the  night, 

Their  whistles  weird  shadows  of  sound. 

We  feel  the  millions  of  humanity  beneath  us, — 

The  warm  millions,  moving  under  the  roofs, 

Consumed  by  their  own  desires; 

Preparing  food, 

Sobbing  alone  in  a  garret, 

With  burning  eyes  bending  over  a  needle, 

Aimlessly  reading  the  evening  paper, 

Dancing  in  the  naked  light  of  the  cafe\ 

Laying  out  the  dead, 

Bringing  a  child  to  birth — 

The  sorrow,  the  torpor,  the  bitterness,  the  frail  joy 
Come  up  to  us 

Like  a  cold  fog  wrapping  us  round, 
Oh  in  a  hundred  years 

Not  one  of  these  blood-warm  bodies 


300         From  the  Woolworth  Tower 


But  will  be  worthless  as  clay. 

The  anguish,  the  torpor,  the  toil 

Will  have  passed  to  other  millions 

Consumed  by  the  same  desires. 

Ages  will  come  and  go, 

Darkness  will  blot  the  lights 

And  the  tower  will  be  laid  on  the  earth. 

The  sea  will  remain 

Black  and  unchanging, 

The  stars  will  look  down 

Brilliant  and  unconcerned. 

Beloved, 

Tho'  sorrow,  futility,  defeat 
Surround  us, 

They  cannot  bear  us  down. 
Here  on  the  abyss  of  eternity 
Love  has  crowned  us 
For  a  moment 
Victors. 


NEW  YORK 


A  Nocturne 

Florence  Earle  Coates 

Down-gazing,  I  behold, 

Miraculous  by  night, 
A  city  all  of  gold. 

Here,  there,  and  everywhere, 

In  myriad  fashion  fair, 
A  mystery  untold 

Of  Light! 

Not  royal  Babylon, 

Nor  Tyre,  nor  Rome  the  great — 

In  the  all-powerful  state 
Her  wisdom  and  her  armed  legions  won — 

Was  so  illuminate 
As  the  strange  world  which,  awed,  I  look  upon. 
With  it  compared,  the  ancient  glories  fail, 

And,  in  the  glow  it  doth  irradiate, 
The  planets  of  the  firmament  grow  pale ! 

Night,  birth-fellow  to  Chaos,  never  wore 
A  robe  so  gemmed  before. 
The  splendour  streams 
In  lines  and  jets  and  scintillating  gleams 
301 


302 


New  York 


From  tower  and  spire  and  campanile  bright, 
And  palaces  of  light. 

How  beautiful  is  this 
Unmatched  Cosmopolis! — 
City  of  wealth  and  want, 

Of  pitiless  extremes, 

Selfish  ambitions,  pure  aspiring  dreams; 
Whose  miseries,  remembered,  daunt 
The  bravest  spirit  hope  hath  cheered — 
This  city  loved  and  hated,  honoured,  feared: 
This  Titan  City,  bold  to  dare: 
This  wounded  Might 

That,  dreading  darkness,  still  conceals  its  care 
And  hides  its  gaping  hurt  'neath  veils  of  light ! 

Oh,  I  have  looked  on  Venice  when  the  moon 
Silvered  each  dark  lagoon, 

And  have  in  dreams  beheld  her 
Clothed  in  resplendent  pride, 
The  Adriatic's  bride! 
Naples  I,  too,  have  seen — 
An  even  lovelier  Queen — 

And  thought  that  nothing  in  the  world  excelled 
her — 

Nay  marvelled,  as  at  close  of  day 
I  gazed  across  her  opalescent  bay 
And  saw  Vesuvius  burn  on  high 
Against  the  soft  Italian  sky, 
That  anything  on  earth  could  wear 
A  charm  so  past  compare! 

Yet,  O  Manhattan!    Glowing  now 
Against  the  sombre  night, 


New  York 


303 


Thine  opulence  and  squalor  hid  from  sight, 
Never  was  aught  more  beautiful  than  thou 
Dost  in  thy  calm  appear — 
So  glorified  and  so  transfigured  here — 
Since  the  Eternal,  to  creation  stirred, 
Breathed  from  His  awful  lips  the  mystic  word : 

Let  there  be  Light! 


A  DREAM  TEMPLE 


New  York  City 

Edith  M.  Thomas 

My  temple  hath  yon  city  roofs  for  floor; 
For  roof,  the  azure;  and,  to  stay  the  roof, 
A  thousand  alabastrine  columns  soar 
In  coiling  smoke  that,  silent,  steals  aloof! 

My  temple  builds  itself  at  windless  prime, — 

At  dawn, — or  in  the  rosy  eventime; 

Ere  garish  midday,  roof  and  pillar  melt, — 

And  they  are  gone, — the  Blest,  who  there  have  knelt ! 


304 


THE  EMPIRE  CITY 
George  Sylvester  Viereck 

Huge  steel -ribbed  monsters  rise  into  the  air 
Her  Babylonian  towers,  while  on  high 
Like  gilt-scaled  serpents  glide  the  swift  trains  by, 

Or,  underfoot,  creep  to  their  secret  lair. 

A  thousand  lights  are  jewels  in  her  hair, 
The  sea  her  girdle,  and  her  crown  the  sky, 
Her  life-blood  throbs,  the  fevered  pulses  fly, 

Immense,  defiant,  breathless  she  stands  there 

And  ever  listens  in  the  ceaseless  din, 

Waiting  for  him,  her  lover  who  shall  come, 

Whose  singing  lips  shall  boldly  claim  their  own 
And  render  sonant  what  in  her  was  dumb : 
The  splendour  and  the  madness  and  the  sin, 

Her  dreams  in  iron  and  her  thoughts  of  stone. 


20 


305 


NEW  YORK,  FROM  A  SKYSCRAPER 


James  Oppenheim 

Up  in  the  heights  of  the  evening  skies  I  see  my  City  of 
cities  float 

In  sunset's  golden  and  crimson  dyes:  I  look,  and  a 

great  joy  clutches  my  throat ! 
Plateau  of  roofs  by  canyons  crossed:  windows  by 

thousands  fire-unfurled 
0  gazing,  how  the  heart  is  lost  in  the  Deepest  City  in 

the  World! 

0  sprawling  City !    Worlds  in  a  world !    Housing  each 

strange  type  that  is  human — 
Yonder  a  Little  Italy  curled — here  the  haunt  of  the 

Scarlet  Woman — 
The  night's  white  Bacchanals  of  Broadway — the 

Ghetto  pushcarts  ringed  with  faces — 
Wall  Street's  roar  and  the  Plaza's  play — a  weltering 

focus  of  all  Earth's  races! 

Walking  your  Night's  many-nationed  byways — brush- 
ing Sicilians  and  Jews  and  Greeks — 

Meeting  gaunt  Bread  Lines  on  your  highways — watch- 
ing night-clerks  in  your  flaming  peaks — 

Marking  your  Theatres'  outpour  of  splendour — paus- 
ing on  doorsteps  with  resting  Mothers — 
306 


New  York,  from  a  Skyscraper  307 


I  marvelled  at  Christs  with  their  messages  tender,  their 
daring  dream  of  a  World  of  Brothers ! 

Brothers?  What  means  Irish  to  Greek?  What  the 
Ghetto  to  Morningside? 

How  shall  we  weld  the  strong  and  the  weak  while 
millions  struggle  with  light  denied  ? 

Yet,  but  to  follow  these  Souls  where  they  roam — rip- 
ping off  housetops,  the  city's  mask — 

At  Night  I  should  find  each  one  in  a  Home,  at  Morn  I 
should  find  each  one  at  a  Task ! 

Labour  and  Love,  four-million  divided — surely  the 

millions  at  last  are  a-move — 
Surely  the  Brotherhood-slant  is  decided — the  Social 

Labour,  the  Social  Love! 
Surely  four  millions  of  Souls  close-gathered  in  this  one 

spot  could  stagger  the  world — 
0  City,  Earth's  Future  is  Mothered  and  Fathered  where 

your  great  streets  feel  the  Man-tides  hurled ! 

For  the  Souls  in  one  car  where  they  hang  on  the 
straps  could  send  this  City  a-wing  through  the 
starred — 

Each  man  is  a  tiny  Faucet  that  taps  the  infinite 

reservoir  of  God ! — 
What  if  they  turned  the  Faucet  full  stream  ?    What  if 

our  millions  to-night  were  aware? 
What  if  to-morrow  they  built  to  their  Dream  the  City 

of  Brothers  in  laughter  and  prayer? 


THE  RED  BOX  AT  VESEY  STREET 


H.  C.  BUNNER 

Past  the  Red  Box  at  Vesey  Street 
Swing  two  strong  tides  of  hurrying  feet, 
And  up  and  down  and  all  the  day 
Rises  a  sullen  roar,  to  say 
The  Bowery  has  met  Broadway. 
And  where  the  confluent  current  brawls 
Stands,  fair  and  dear  and  old,  St.  Paul's, 
Through  her  grand  window  looking  down 
Upon  the  fever  of  the  town ; 
Rearing  her  shrine  of  patriot  pride 
Above  that  hungry  human-tide 
Mad  with  the  lust  of  sordid  gain, 
Wild  for  the  things  that  God  holds  vain; 
Blind,  selfish,  cruel — Stay  there!  out 
A  man  is  turning  from  the  rout, 
And  stops  to  drop  a  folded  sheet 
In  the  Red  Box  at  Vesey  Street. 
On  goes  he  to  the  money-mart, 
A  broker,  shrewd  and  tricky-smart; 
But  in  the  space  you  saw  him  stand, 
He  reached  and  grasped  a  brother's  hand: 
And  some  poor  bed-rid  wretch  will  find 
Bed-life  a  little  less  unkind 
.308 


The  Red  Box  at  Vesey  Street 


309 


For  that  man's  stopping.    They  who  pass 
Under  St.  Paul's  broad  roseate  glass 
Have  but  to  reach  their  hands  to  gain 
The  pitiful  world  of  prisoned  pain. 
The  hospital's  poor  captive  lies 
Waiting  the  day  with  weary  eyes, 
Waiting  the  day,  to  hear  again 
News  of  the  outer  world  of  men, 
Brought  to  him  in  a  crumpled  sheet 
From  the  Red  Box  at  Vesey  Street. 

For  the  Red  Box  at  Vesey  Street 

Was  made  because  men's  hearts  must  beat; 

Because  the  humblest  kindly  thought 

May  do  what  wealth  has  never  bought. 

That  journal  in  your  hand  you  hold 

To  you  already  has  grown  old, — 

Stale,  dull,  a  thing  to  throw  away, — 

Yet  since  the  earliest  gleam  of  day 

Men  in  a  score  of  hospitals 

Have  lain  and  watched  the  whitewashed  walls ; 

Waiting  the  hour  that  brings  more  near 

The  Life  so  infinitely  dear — 

The  Life  of  trouble,  toil,  and  strife, 

Hard,  if  you  will — but  Life,  Life,  Life! 

Tell  them,  0  friend!  that  life  is  sweet 

Through  the  Red  Box  at  Vesey  Street. 


ON  CEDAR  STREET,  NEW  YORK 
Helen  Hay  Whitney 

I,  whose  totem  was  a  tree 

In  the  days  when  earth  was  new, 
Joyous  leafy  ancestry 

Known  of  twilight  and  of  dew, 
Now  within  this  iron  wall 

Slave  of  tasks  that  irk  the  soul, 
To  my  parents  send  one  call — 

That  they  give  me  of  their  dole. 

Thro'  the  roar  of  alien  sound 

Grimy  noise  of  work-a-day, 
Secretly  a  voice,  half  drowned, 

Whispers  thro'  the  evening's  grey, 
"Child,  we  know  the  path  you  tread, 

Ghost  and  manes,  we  are  true : 
Cedar  spirits,  long  since  dead, 

Calm  and  sweet  abide  with  you. " 


310 


ISAAK  WALTON  IN  MAIDEN  LANE 


Percy  MacKaye 

In  that  Manhattan  alley  long  yclept, 

With  gentle  olden  music,  Maiden  Lane, 

Where  sick  and  sad-eyed  Traffic  scarce  has  slept 

Even  at  midnight,  in  her  lust  for  gain, 

Rolling  in  restive  pain 

Through  the  stern  vigil  of  a  century, 

There,  mid  the  din  of  harsh  reality — 

The  newsboy's  shriek,  car's  clang  and  huckster's  chaff, 

The  cobble's  roar,  and  the  loud  drayman's  laugh, 

And  the  dull  stare, 

The  inhuman,  haunted  glare 

Of  the  faces — the  grey  faces 

Of  Mammon's  stark-mad  races, 

Sordid  and  slattern, 

Modish  and  tattern, 

Loveless  in  their  misery — 

There,  in  the  midst  of  all, 

Seated  upon  a  stall, 

Musing  on  meadows,  Isaak,  I  met  thee ! — 
How  my  heart  stopped  for  too  much  happiness, 
To  meet  thee  there  in  that  maelstrom  of  men, 
Benignant,  wise  and  calm !    Ah,  gently  then 
Came  back,  in  fancy's  dress, 
All  that  of  old  was  sweet, 

311 


312       Isaak  Walton  in  Maiden  Lane 


Serene  and  fair,  to  grace  the  garish  street. 

Musing  on  meadows  now  in  Maiden  Lane, 

The  turbid  current  surging  at  my  side 

Became  the  flow  of  Thames'  sequestered  tide, 

The  newsboy's  cry  waned  to  a  curlew's  call, 

The  jangling  pedlar  tended  tinkling  sheep 

Along  green  hedgerows;  even  the  drayman's  brawl 

Sweetened  to  an  old  soliloquy,  till  all 

That  strident  world  has  chastened  to  a  sleep 

Where,  in  a  twilit  eddy  of  my  dream, 

Thine  image,  Isaak,  pored  upon  a  bream. 


AT  THE  SHRINE 


Richard  Kendall  Munkittrick 

A  pale  Italian  peasant, 

Beside  the  dusty  way, 
Upon  this  morning  pleasant 

Kneels  in  the  sun  to  pray. 

Silent  in  her  devotion, 

With  fervent  glance  she  pleads; 
Her  finger's  only  motion, 

Telling  her  amber  beads. 

Dreaming  of  ilex  bowers 
Beyond  the  purple  brine 

Once  more  she  sees  the  flowers 
Bloom  at  the  wayside  shrine. 

And,  while  the  mad  crowd  jostles, 
She,  with  a  visage  sweet, 

Prays  where  the  bisque  apostles 
Are  sold  on  Barclay  Street. 


313 


THE  FACTORIES 


Margaret  Widdemer 


I  have  shut  my  little  sister  in  from  life  and  light 
(For  a  rose,  for  a  ribbon,  for  a  wreath  across  my 
hair) , 

I  have  made  her  restless  feet  still  until  the  night, 
Locked  from  sweets  of  summer  and  fine  wild  spring 
air; 

I  who  ranged  the  meadowlands,  free  from  sun  to  sun 
Free  to  sing  and  pull  the  buds  and  watch  the  far 
wings  fly, 

I  have  bound  my  sister  till  her  playing-time  was 
done — 

Oh,  my  little  sister,  was  it  I?    Was  it  I? 


I  have  robbed  my  sister  of  her  day  of  maidenhood 
(For  a  robe,  for  a  feather,  for  a  trinket's  restless 
spark), 

Shut  from  Love  till  dusk  shall  fall,  how  shall  she  know 
good, 

How  shall  she  go  scatheless  through  the  sin-lit 
dark? 

I  who  could  be  innocent,  I  who  could  be  gay, 

I  who  could  have  love  and  mirth  before  the  light 
went  by. 

3H 


The  Factories 


315 


I  have  put  my  sister  in  her  mating-time  away — 
Sister,  my  young  sister,  was  it  I  ?    Was  it  I  ? 

I  have  robbed  my  sister  of  the  lips  against  her  breast, 
(For  a  coin,  for  the  weaving  of  my  children's  lace  and 
lawn) , 

Feet  that  pace  beside  the  loom,  hands  that  cannot 
rest — 

How  can  she  know  motherhood,  whose  strength  is 
gone? 

I  who  took  no  heed  of  her,  starved  and  labour-worn. 
I  against  whose  placid  heart  my  sleepy  gold-heads 
lie, 

Round  my  path  they  cry  to  me,  little  souls  unborn — 
God  of  Life !  Creator !    It  was  I !    It  was  I ! 


THE  CHILDREN 


John  Hall  Wheelock 

In  the  Spring  on  the  pavements  of  the  city 

The  little  children  play  marbles  and  laugh  and 
shout, 

Their  laughter  is  drowned  by  the  city  all  about ; 
But  they  laugh  back  regardless  of  the  city 
And  clap  their  hands  and  shout. 

In  the  sunlight  fading  from  the  alleys, 

The  braided  hair,  and  the  short  hair  are  bowed 
Over  a  few  soiled  marbles;  a  watching  crowd 

Circles  them  in  the  noisy,  dusty  alleys, 
Where  the  close  heads  are  bowed. 

From  the  river  in  the  distance  flowing 

The  whistles  murmur, — the  tired  souls  of  men 
Call  to  each  other  over  the  waters  again, 

Over  the  river  in  the  sunlight  flowing 
Answer  the  souls  of  men. 

When  lamps  in  the  street-ways  glimmer, 

Along  the  rooves  the  sky  still  burns  with  day, — 
A  little  group  watches  them  where  they  play. 

And  in  the  distance  the  long  waters  glimmer 
With  the  receding  day. 


316 


CHINATOWN  UNVISITED 


George  Macdonald  Major 

In  the  Sybil  Book  of  Youth 
First  I  read  the  word  in  sooth; 
Golden  legends  of  a  place 
Full  of  romance,  full  of  grace, 
Till  my  radiant  childhood  teemed 
With  the  glories  that  I  dreamed — 
Chinatown,  0  Chinatown. 

There  methought  the  air  ne'er  ceased 
Blowing  odors  from  the  East, 
Never  ceased  weird  music  from 
Banjo,  tinkling  bells,  tom-tom. 
While  each  scented  breeze  unrolled 
Flags  of  yellow,  red,  and  gold — 
Chinatown,  0  Chinatown. 

Sheening  silks  and  jeweled  shoes 
These,  methought  the  Chinese  use 
Up  and  down  the  shining  streets, 
Only  wealth  and  pleasure  meets. 
While  the  bells  of  Joss  peal  down 
Blessings  rich  in  Chinatown — 
Chinatown,  0  Chinatown. 


3i7 


CHINATOWN  VISITED 


George  Macdonald  Major 

From  sullen  skies  a  cheerless  rain 
That  floods  the  half-choked  gutter  drain; 
Ramshackle  houses,  brick  and  wood, 
Where  hides  Disease  with  shroud  and  hood ; 
Worn  doors,  uncurtained  window-panes 
And  mucky  streets  and  garbage  lanes — 
And  this  is — this  is  Chinatown. 

Pattering  feet  of  Chinamen, 

Holima,  Ching-la, 
Ribald  girls  of  Chinatown; 

Joss !  how  foul  they  are. 

Within  the  ever-swinging  door 
The  halls  uncarpeted,  where  pour 
The  pungent,  sickening  opium  fumes 
From  out  the  poorly  furnished  rooms, 
Where  spots  of  gilt  and  red  attest 
What  dingy  finery  is  the  rest — 
In  Chinatown,  in  Chinatown. 

Raising  Cain  in  Chinatown, 
Drink,  and  dope  and  toss; 

Day  and  night  are  but  a  day, 
Not  a  God,  but  Joss. 

318 


Chinatown  Visited  319 


The  Joss,  a  paint-daubed  idol  pent, 
The  third  floor  of  a  tenement, 
Draped  faded  silk  and  tawdry  gold, 
Where  wrinkled  priests  their  service  hold 
While  barbarous  drum  and  banjos  whine, 
Make  thoughts  infernal  not  divine — 
Within  the  fane  of  Chinatown. 

Pictures  of  pagodas,  too; 

Tea-fields  stretching  down 
Lumbering  junks  and  sampan  boats — 

This  is  Chinatown. 

And  women  old  before  their  time, 
With  faces  cursed  by  drink  or  crime, 
From  many  open  casements  peer 
At  huddling  Chinamen  who  leer 
From  doors  of  dens  where  gamblers  meet 
Or  dives  or  corners  of  the  street — 
In  tawdry,  slattern  Chinatown. 

Calling  out  to  sailor  men: 

"Sailor  mokki  hi, 
Fightin'  dlunk  in  Doyers  Stleet, 

China  gel  no  li!" 


THE  GREEK  QUARTER 
John  Myers  O'Hara 

The  cryptic  letters  of  the  golden  tongue 

The  philhellene  upon  the  window  sees, 

And  hears  the  music  of  Maeonides 
Above  the  roar  by  trains  and  traffic  flung; 
Heroic  odes  to  Argive  valour  sung. 

And  softer  strains  of  old  idyllic  ease; 

A  solace  lure  for  servile  destinies 
Unknown  to  Hellas  when  the  world  was  young. 
I  sip  the  coffee  of  Demetrios 

And  listen  while  my  thought  is  far  away; 

The  swarthy  faces  of  the  dim  cafe 
Are  olive  vendors  on  the  shores  of  Cos ; 
The  wall  lamps  flicker  but  I  peer  across 

The  blue  ^Egean  sparkling  in  the  day. 


320 


BALLAD  OF  DEAD  GIRLS 


Dana  Burnet 

Scarce  had  they  brought  the  bodies  down 

Across  the  withered  floor 
Than  Max  Rogosky  thundered  at 

The  District  Leader's  door. 

Scarce  had  the  white-lipped  mothers  come 

To  search  the  fearful  noon 
Than  little  Max  stood  shivering 

In  Tom  McTodd's  saloon. 

In  Tom  McTodd's  saloon  he  stood, 

Beside  the  silver  bar, 
Where  any  honest  lad  may  stand 

And  sell  his  vote  at  par. 

"Ten  years  I've  paid  the  System's  tax. " 

(The  words  fell  quivering,  raw), 
' '  And  now  I  want  the  thing  I  bought — 

Protection  from  the  law. " 

The  Leader  smiled  a  crooked  smile. 

"Your  doors  were  locked, "  he  said. 
"You've  overstepped  the  limit,  Max — 
A  hundred  women  .  .  .  dead!" 

21  321 


Ballad  of  Dead  Girls 


Then  Max  Rogosky  gripped  the  bar, 

And  shivered  where  he  stood. 
"You  listen  now  to  me, "  he  cried, 

"Like  business  fellers  should. 

"I've  paid  for  all  my  hundred  dead, 
I've  paid,  I've  paid,  I've  paid  ..." 

His  ragged  laughter  rang,  and  died — 
For  he  was  sore  afraid. 

"I've  paid  for  wooden  hall  and  stair, 

I've  paid  to  strain  my  floors, 
I've  paid  for  rotten  fire-escapes, 

For  all  my  bolted  doors. 

"Your  fat  inspectors  came  and  came, 
I  crossed  their  hands  with  gold, 

And  now  I  want  the  thing  I  bought, 
The  thing  the  System  sold. " 

The  District  Leader  filled  a  glass 

With  whisky  from  the  bar ; 
(The  little  silver  counter  where 

He  bought  men's  souls  at  par.) 

And  well  he  knew  that  he  must  give 

The  thing  that  he  had  sold. 
Else  men  should  doubt  the  System's  word, 

Keep  back  the  System's  gold. 

The  whisky  burned  beneath  his  tongue: 

"A  hundred  women — dead! 
I  guess  the  Boss  can  fix  it  up; 

Go  home — and  hide,  "  he  said. 


Ballad  of  Dead  Girls 


323 


All  day  they  brought  the  bodies  down 
From  Max  Rogosky's  place. 

And,  oh,  the  fearful  touch  of  flame 
On  hand  and  breast  and  face! 

All  day  the  white-lipped  mothers  came 
To  search  the  sheeted  dead, 

And  Horror  strode  the  blackened  walls 
Where  Death  had  walked  in  red. 

But  Max  Rogosky  did  not  weep 
(He  knew  that  tears  were  vain) ; 

He  paid  the  System's  price,  and  lived 
To  lock  his  doors  again. 


BOWERY  GALS,  1850 


(From  Christy's  Plantation  Melodies) 

As  I  was  lumbering  down  de  street, 

O,  down  de  street, 

O,  down  de  street, 
Dat  pretty  color'd  gal  I  chanc'd  to  meet. 

0,  she  was  fair  to  view. 

Chorus 

Den  de  Bowery  gals  will  you  come  out  to-night? 

Will  you  come  out  to-night  ? 

Will  you  come  out  to-night? 
0,  de  Bowery  gals  will  you  come  out  to-night 

And  dance  by  de  light  ob  de  moon? 

Den  we  stopp'd  awhile  and  had  some  talk, 

0,  we  had  some  talk, 

0,  we  had  some  talk, 
And  her  heel  cover'd  up  the  whole  side-walk, 

As  she  stood  right  by  me. 

Chorus  :  Den  de  Bowery  gals,  etc. 

I'd  like  to  kiss  dem  lubly  lips, 
Dem  lubly  lips, 
Dem  lubly  lips, 

324 


Bowery  Gals,  1850 


325 


I  think  that  I  could  lose  my  wits, 
And  drap  right  down  on  de  floor. 

Chorus:  Den  de  Bowery  gals,  etc. 

I  ax'd  her  would  she  go  to  a  dance, 

Would  she  go  to  a  dance, 

Would  she  go  to  a  dance, 
I  thought  that  I  might  have  a  chance 

To  shake  my  foot  wid  her. 

Chorus  :  Den  de  Bowery  gals,  etc. 

I  danc'd  all  night  and  my  heel  kept  a-rocking, 

0,  my  heel  kept  a-rocking, 

0,  my  heel  kept  a-rocking, 
And  I  balance  to  de  gal  wid  a  hole  in  her  stocking, 

She  was  de  prettiest  gal  in  de  room. 

Chorus:  Den  de  Bowery  gals,  etc. 

I  am  bound  to  make  dat  gal  my  wife, 

Dat  gal  my  wife, 

Dat  gal  my  wife, 
0,  I  should  be  happy  all  my  life, 

If  I  had  her  along  wid  me. 

Chorus  :  Den  de  Bowery  gals,  etc. 


ROMAIOS 


W.  G.  Ballantine 

'Twas  in  the  crowded  avenue;  o'erhead 

Thundered  the  trains;  below  the  pavement  shook 

With  quivering  cables ;  everywhere  the  crush 

Of  horses,  wheels,  and  men  eddied  and  swirled. 

A  river  of  humanity  swept  by 

With  faces  hard  as  ice.    I  stopped  beside 

A  little  push-cart  filled  with  southern  fruits 

And  dickered  with  the  huckster,  "Three  for  five?" 

"No,  two, "  in  broken  English.    There  we  stood — 

He  shabby,  stooping,  wolfish,  all  intent 

Upon  a  penny,  I  to  him  no  more 

Than  just  another  stranger  from  the  throng 

Trampling  each  other  in  this  fierce  new  world. 

Then  looking  in  his  sordid  eyes  I  said, 

Using  the  tongue  of  Plato  and  of  Paul, 

"Art  thou  a  Roman?"    Never  magic  word 

Of  wizard  or  enchanter  wrought  more  sure. 

The  man  erect,  transfigured,  eyes  on  fire, 

Lips  parted,  breath  drawn  fast,  thrust  in  my  hands 

His  double  handful.    Huckster?    No,  a  king! 

"Could  I  speak  Roman?    Did  I  share  it  all — 

The  memories,  the  pride,  the  grief,  the  hope?" 

Then  welcome  to  the  best  of  all  he  had. 

326 


Romaios 


327 


Wouldst  know,  self-glorified  American, 
The  name  that  sums  the  grandest  heritage 
Race  ever  owned?    'Tis  "Roman"  spoke  in  Greek; 
ROMAIOS  they  call  it.    Constantine  the  Great, 
Fixed  with  new  capital  where  East  meets  West, 
Brought  Rome's  imperial  law,  the  Cross  of  Christ, 
The  art  and  tongue  of  Greece — the  whole  world's 
best; 

And  in  that  fairest  spot  new  Christian  Rome 
Reigned  queen  a  thousand  years,  until  the  Turk 
Fell  like  a  blight,  and  darkness  shrouded  all. 

But  still  that  name  lives  in  the  exiles'  dreams, 
All  glories,  Christian,  Hebrew,  Roman,  Greek, 
Blend  in  that  one  unequalled  Romaios. 
Abraham,  Moses,  Homer,  Phidias, 
Cassar,  Paul,  Chrysostom,  Justinian, 
Bozzaris,  Ypsilanti,  Byron,  all 
Are  his.    0  blessed  America,  these  men 
That  come  in  rags,  bring  jewels  in  their  hearts 
To  shine  resplendent  in  thy  future's  crown ! 


A  SWEETHEART:  THOMPSON  STREET 


Samuel  McCoy 

Queen  of  all  streets,  Fifth  Avenue 

Stretches  her  slender  limbs 
From  the  great  Arch  of  Triumph,  on — 

On,  where  the  distance  dims 

The  splendors  of  her  jewelled  robes, 

Her  granite  draperies ; 
The  magic,  sunset-smitten  walls 

That  veil  her  marble  knees; 

For  ninety  squares  she  lies  a  queen, 

Superb,  bare,  unashamed, 
Yielding  her  beauty  scornfully 

To  worshippers  unnamed. 

But  at  her  feet  her  sister  glows, 

A  daughter  of  the  South : 
Squalid,  immeasurably  mean, — 

But  oh!  her  hot,  sweet  mouth! 

My  Thompson  Street!    a  Tuscan  girl, 
Hot  with  life's  wildest  blood; 

Her  black  shawl  on  her  black,  black  hair, 
Her  brown  feet  stained  with  mud ; 
328 


A  Sweetheart:  Thompson  Street 


329 


A  scarlet  blossom  at  her  lips, 
A  new  babe  at  her  breast ; 

A  singer  at  a  wine-shop  door, 
(Her  lover  unconf essed) . 

Listen!  a  hurdy-gurdy  plays — 

Now  alien  melodies : 
She  smiles,  she  cannot  quite  forget 

The  mother  over-seas. 

But  she  no  less  is  mine  alone, 

Mine,  mine!  .  .  .    Who  may  I  be? 

Have  /  betrayed  her  from  her  home? 
I  am  called  Liberty! 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE 


Richard  Watson  Gilder 

This  is  the  end  of  town  I  love  the  best. 
O,  lovely  the  hour  of  light  from  the  burning  west — 
Of  light  that  lingers  and  fades  in  the  shadowy  square 
Where  the  solemn  fountain  lifts  a  shaft  in  the  air 
To  catch  the  skyey  colours,  and  fling  them  down 
In  a  wild-wood  torrent  that  drowns  the  noise  of  the 
town. 

And  lovely  the  hour  of  the  still  and  dreamy  night 
When,  lifted  against  the  blue,  stands  the  arch  of 
white 

With  one  clear  planet  above;  and  the  sickle  moon, 
In  curve  reversed  from  the  arch's  marble  round, 
Silvers  the  sapphire  sky.    Now  soon,  ah,  soon, 
Shall  the  city  square  be  turned  to  holy  ground, 
Through  the  light  of  the  moon  and  the  stars  and  the 

glowing  flower, — 
The  Cross  of  Light, — that  looms  from  the  sacred 

tower. 


330 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE 


James  Oppenheim 

Starless  and  still — 

Who  stopped  this  heart? 

Who  bound  this  city  in  a  trance? 

With  open  eyes  the  sleeping  houses  stare  at  the 
Park: 

And  among  nude  boughs  the  slumbering  hanging 

moons  are  gazing : 
And  somnambulent  drops  of  melting  snow  glide  from 

the  roofs  and  patter  on  the  pave — 
I  in  a  dream  draw  the  echoes  of  my  footfall  silvery 

sharp — 

Sleep-walking  city! 

Who  are  the  wide-eyed  prowlers  in  the  night  ? 
What  nightmare-ridden  cars  move  through  their  own 
far  thunder? 

What  living  death  of  the  wind  rises,  crackling  the 
drowsy  twigs? 

In  the  enchantment  of  the  ebb  of  life, 

In  the  miracle  of  millions  stretched  in  their  rooms 

unconscious  and  breathing, 
In  the  sleep  of  the  broadcast  people, 

33i 


332  Washington  Square 


In  the  multitude  of  dreams  rising  from  the  houses, 

I  pause,  frozen  in  a  spell. 

We  sleep  in  the  eternal  arms  of  night : 

We  give  ourselves,  in  the  heart  of  peril, 

To  sheer  unconsciousness : 

Silently  sliding  through  space,  the  huge  globe  turns. 
I  cannot  go: 

I  dream  that  behind  a  window  one  wakes,  a  woman : 
She  is  thinking  of  me. 


ON  SICK  LEAVE 


1916 

Hamilton  Fish  Armstrong 

He  limped  beneath  the  Arch,  across  the  Square, 
And  through  the  dazzling  shaft  of  rainbow-air 
That  blew  from  where  the  busy  fountain  leaped. 
For  him  within  that  vision-laden  cloud 
There  were  no  peaceful  hills,  no  valleys  loud 
With  streams,  no  fields  in  honeysuckle  steeped. 

Grim  hills  there  were,  emplumed  with  puffs  of  smok 
Valleys  there  were,  where  biting  guns  awoke 
Echoes  that  died  amid  the  eternal  din — 
Broad  honeysuckle-bordered  fields  there  were, 
Stamped  down  by  passing  troops, — and  in  the  air 
That  smell  which  only  is  where  war  has  been. 


333 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE,  NORTH 

Walter  Prichard  Eaton 

Red-brick  and  sunny  in  a  cheerful  row, 
Unboastful  of  the  beauty  they  possess, 
These  ancient  houses  face  the  square;  the  stress 
Of  commerce  from  the  nervous  town  below 
Swept  round  and  far  beyond  them  long  ago ; 
Upon  their  view  the  high  warehouses  press; 
But  they  abide  in  their  old-worldliness, 
And  time  with  them  moves  gratefully  and  slow. 

Not  otherwise  when  time  and  age  advance 
May  I  look  forth  on  some  green  spot  in  life, 
And  keep  the  world  aloof  to  see  the  sun, 
And  hold  the  children  in  a  kindly  glance, 
There  peacefully  to  pass  out  from  the  strife, 
Unsoiled,  unwearied,  when  my  day  is  done. 


334 


OLD  TRAILS 


Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 

I  met  him  as  one  meets  a  ghost  or  two, 
Between  the  gray  Arch  and  the  old  Hotel. 

"King  Solomon  was  right,  there's  nothing  new," 
Said  he.    "Behold  a  ruin  who  meant  well. " 

He  led  me  down  familiar  steps  again, 

Appealingly,  and  set  me  in  a  chair. 
"My  dreams  have  all  come  true  to  other  men, " 

Said  he;  "God  lives,  however,  and  why  care? 

"An  hour  among  the  ghosts  will  do  no  harm. " 

He  laughed,  and  something  glad  within  me  sank. 
I  may  have  eyed  him  with  a  faint  alarm, 

For  now  his  laugh  was  lost  in  what  he  drank. 

"They  chill  things  here  with  ice  from  hell, "  he  said; 

"I  might  have  known  it. "    And  he  made  a  face 
That  showed  again  how  much  of  him  was  dead, 

And  how  much  was  alive  and  out  of  place, 

And  out  of  reach.    He  knew  as  well  as  I 

That  all  the  words  of  wise  men  who  are  skilled 

In  using  them  are  not  so  much  to  defy 

What  comes  when  memory  meets  the  unfulfilled. 
335 


336 


Old  Trails 


What  evil  and  infirm  perversity- 
Had  been  at  work  with  him  to  bring  him  back? 

Never  among  the  ghosts,  assuredly, 
Would  he  originate  a  new  attack; 

Never  among  the  ghosts,  or  anywhere, 
Till  what  was  dead  of  him  was  put  away, 

Would  he  attain  to  his  offended  share 
Of  honour  among  others  of  his  day. 

"You  ponder  like  an  owl, "  he  said  at  last; 

"You  always  did,  and  here  you  have  a  cause. 
For  I'm  a  confirmation  of  the  past, 

A  vengeance,  and  a  flowering  of  what  was. 

"Sorry?    Of  course  you  are,  though  you  compress, 
With  even  your  most  impenetrable  fears, 

A  placid  and  a  proper  consciousness 
Of  anxious  angels  over  my  arrears. 

' '  I  see  them  there  against  me  in  a  book 

As  large  as  hope,  in  ink  that  shines  by  night. 

For  sure  I  see;  but  now  I'd  rather  look 
At  you,  and  you  are  not  a  pleasant  sight. 

"Forbear,  forgive.    Ten  years  are  on  my  soul, 
And  on  my  conscience.    I've  an  incubus: 

My  one  distinction,  and  a  parlous  toll 
To  glory;  but  hope  lives  on  clamorous. 

"  'Twas  hope,  though  heaven  I  grant  you  knows  of 
what — 

The  kind  that  blinks  and  rises  when  it  falls, 
Whether  it  sees  a  reason  why  or  not — 

That  heard  Broadway's  hard-throated  siren-calls ; 


Old  Trails 


337 


"'Twas  hope  that  brought  me  through  December 
storms, 

To  shores  again  where  I'll  not  have  to  be 
A  lonely  man  with  only  foreign  worms 
To  cheer  him  in  his  last  obscurity. 

"But  what  it  was  that  hurried  me  down  here 
To  be  among  the  ghosts,  I  leave  to  you. 

My  thanks  are  yours,  no  less,  for  one  thing  clear: 
Though  you  are  silent  what  you  say  is  true. 

"There  may  have  been  the  devil  in  my  feet, 

For  down  I  blundered  like  a  fugitive, 
To  find  the  old  room  in  Eleventh  Street. 

God  save  us! — I  came  here  again  to  live. " 

We  rose  at  that,  and  all  the  ghosts  rose  then, 
And  followed  us  unseen  to  his  old  room. 

No  longer  a  good  place  for  living  men 

We  found  it,  and  we  shivered  in  the  gloom. 

The  goods  he  took  away  from  there  were  few, 
And  soon  we  found  ourselves  outside  once  more, 

Where  now  the  lights  along  the  Avenue 

Bloomed  white  for  miles  above  an  iron  floor. 

"Now  lead  me  to  the  newest  of  hotels, " 

He  said,  "and  let  your  spleen  be  undeceived: 

This  ruin  is  not  myself,  but  someone  else; 
I  haven't  failed;  I've  merely  not  achieved." 

Whether  he  knew  or  not,  he  laughed  and  dined 
With  more  of  an  immune  regardlessness 

Of  pits  before  him  and  of  sands  behind 

Than  many  a  child  at  forty  would  confess; 

22 


338 


Old  Trails 


And  after,  when  the  bells  in  Boris  rang 

Their  tumult  at  the  Metropolitan, 
He  rocked  himself,  and  I  believe  he  sang. 

"God  lives,"  he  crooned  aloud,  "and  I'm  the  man!" 

He  was.    And  even  though  the  creature  spoiled 

All  prophecies,  I  cherish  his  acclaim. 
Three  weeks  he  fattened;  and  five  years  he  toiled 

In  Yonkers, — and  then  sauntered  into  fame. 

And  he  may  go  now  to  what  streets  he  will — 

Eleventh,  or  the  last,  and  little  care; 
But  he  would  find  the  old  room  very  still 

Of  evenings,  and  the  ghosts  would  all  be  there. 

I  doubt  if  he  goes  after  them;  I  doubt 

If  many  of  them  ever  come  to  him. 
His  memories  are  like  lamps,  and  they  go  out; 

Or  if  they  burn,  they  flicker  and  are  dim. 

A  light  of  other  gleams  he  has  to-day 

And  adulations  of  applauding  hosts; 
A  famous  danger,  but  a  safer  way 

Than  growing  old  alone  among  the  ghosts. 

But  we  may  still  be  glad  that  we  were  wrong; 

He  fooled  us,  and  we'd  shrivel  to  deny  it ; 
Though  sometimes  when  old  echoes  ring  too  long, 

I  wish  the  bells  in  Boris  would  be  quiet. 


OLD  SAWS  AND  SEE-SAWS 


Andrew  E.  Watrous 

From  Eighth  Street  up,  from  Eighth  Street  down, 
This  is  the  manner  of  this  great  town : 
From  Eighth  Street  up,  the  women  are  spurning  it; 
From  Eighth  Street  down  the  men  are  earning  it. 

Borrowing,  buying,  begging  it,  lending  it, 

From  Eighth  Street  up  the  women  are  spending  it. 

'Twill  be  the  manner  of  this  great  town 

Till  Wall  Street's  up  and  Harlem's  down, 

Till  green  grass  grows  in  Tompkins  Square, 
Till  all  the  "L's"  reduce  their  fare; 
From  some  street  up,  the  women  are  burning  it, 
From  some  street  down,  the  men  still  earning  it; 

Father  from  son,  if  need  be,  rending  it, 
That  daughter  and  wife  may  still  be  spending  it. 
From  Eighth  Street  up,  from  Eighth  Street  down — 
A  see-saw  rhyme  and  a  see-saw  town. 


339 


THE  MENU 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 

I  beg  you  come  to-night  and  dine. 
A  welcome  waits  you,  and  sound  wine — 
The  Roederer  chilly  to  a  charm, 
As  Juno's  breath  the  claret  warm, 
The  sherry  of  an  ancient  brand. 
No  Persian  pomp,  you  understand — 
A  soup,  a  fish,  two  meats,  and  then 
A  salad  fit  for  aldermen 
(When  aldermen,  alas  the  days! 
Were  really  worth  their  mayonnaise) ; 
A  dish  of  grapes  whose  clusters  won 
Their  bronze  in  Carolinian  sun ; 
Next,  cheese — for  you  the  Neufchatel, 
A  bit  of  Cheshire  likes  me  well ; 
Cafe  au  lait  or  coffee  black, 
With  Kirsch  or  Kummel  or  Cognac 
(The  German  Band  in  Irving  Place 
By  this  time  purple  in  the  face) ; 
Cigars  and  pipes.    These  being  through, 
Friends  shall  drop  in,  a  very  few — 
Shakespeare  and  Milton,  and  no  more. 
When  these  are  guests  I  bolt  the  door, 
With  Not  at  Home  to  any  one 
Excepting  Alfred  Tennyson. 


340 


GRACE  CHIMES 


Meredith  Nicholson 

"Lead,  kindly  light, "  I  heard  the  glad  bells  ring, 
And  thought  how  God  existeth  everywhere; 

'Twas  in  a  city  strange  that,  sweetest  thing! 

"Lead,  kindly  light,"  I  heard  the  glad  bells  ring, 

And  summer  quickened  in  the  heart  of  spring, 
For  where  the  kind  light  leadeth  all  is  fair. 

"Lead,  kindly  light,"  I  heard  the  glad  bells  ring, 
And  thought  how  God  existeth  everywhere. 


34i 


AT  HALF-PAST  FIVE 


A  February  Fancy 
Andrew  E.  Watrous 

This  is  a  common  dream  enough — 

You've  dreamt  it,  friend,  and  so  have  I 
Along  with  like  romantic  stuff 

Of  how  and  when  a  man  would  die. 
Futile!    It  matters  little,  when 

Upon  Death's  roll  we're  reached  and  read 
Where  are  we;  the  one  wish  is  then 

For  more  names  Hwixt  ours  and  the  head. 
We  lazy  fellows  like  to  prate 

Of  battles  o'er  and  marches  done; 
Yet  in  the  grim  king's  army  great, 

Conscript,  methinks,  is  every  one. 
Yet  more  a  fool  than  dreamer  he 

(And  fools  in  this  are  most  alive) 
Who  may  in  dreams,  seen  dreams  to  be, 

Joy  not.    I'd  die  at  half -past  five, 
Then  when  the  flood  of  Broadway's  tide 

Sets  upward  through  the  winter  mist 
From  the  slim  city's  either  side, 

Drawn  like  thin  glove  on  slender  wrist; 
With  all  the  league  of  lights  aflare, 

Above  the  hurrying  roar  and  bustle 
That  makes  for  avenue  and  square, 

As  if  for  life  were  strained  each  muscle; 
342 


At  Half-Past  Five 


343 


When  Trinity  points,  there  below, 

Still  skyward,  with  its  awful  face 
Framed  by  the  red  sun's  afterglow, 

In  solemn  flame  from  spire  to  base — 
Then,  in  this  queer  old  cross-town  street, 

By  some  dim  window,  where,  at  length, 
Day,  dying,  wholly  failed  to  meet 

The  task  that  taxed  its  noonday  strength, 
As  in  my  dull  ear  duller  grew 

The  hum,  as  fainter  to  my  eyes 
The  shimmer  of  the  street-lamps  through 

The  mist  that  took  in  two  worlds'  rise, 
A  moment  would  my  numb  brain  seize 

What  prank  Fate  played  so  straight-faced  well, 
To  keep  me  toiling  like  to  these 

For  what  I  could  not  dying  tell — 
A  moment  would  there  at  the  pest 

Flash  laughter — far  would  buzz  their  hive, 
Then  stilled  this  beat  here  in  the  breast, 

As  night  came  down  at  half-past  five. 


YOUTH 


Samuel  McCoy 

You  say  New  York  is  lovelier  than  ever? 

Ah,  is  it  still  the  city  that  I  knew? 
Is  it  still  .  .  .  tell  me  first,  though,  did  you  never 

Dine  at  that  restaurant  I  sent  you  to  ? 

You  know — the  little  one  that  artists  know  of; 

The  one  you  never  find  without  a  guide; 
The  one  where  no  one  ever  makes  a  show  of 

His  worldly  wealth,  or  puts  on  any  "side. " 

Much  chance  there  was  indeed  of  our  dissembling, 
With  those  wild  Indians  there  to  squelch  all  sham ! 

Why,  not  one  of  us  had  a  thing  resembling 
(Even  remotely)  wealth — nor  cared  a  damn ! 

You  say  you  missed  it?  never  once  you  dined  there? 

I'm  sorry!  But  perhaps  you'd  not  have  seen 
The  glamour  that  we  fellows  used  to  find  there; 

It  might  have  bored  you — though  I'm  sure  'twas 
clean ! 

Not  that  that  mattered !  We  were  young  and  healthy, 
And  breakfast,  luncheons,  never  cost  us  much; 

At  night,  with  a  half-dollar,  we  were  wealthy, 
And  dined  there  ravenously — always  "dutch.  " 
344 


Youth 


345 


Hesternce  rosce!    Yes,  my  Latin's  scrappy; 

I'm  not  quite  certain  that  it's  apropos; 
But  still  those  yesterdays  were,  oh,  so  happy, 

And  nights  like  those  are  wonderful  to  know ! 

I'll  try  to  show  you  .  .  .    This  is  how  you  find  it, 
This  restaurant  we  called  "The  Hopeful  Heart" — 

A  silly  title;  but  you  mustn't  mind  it, 

We  were  all  youngsters  then,  and  mad  on  Art — 

You  leave  the  Avenue  just  where  the  church's 
Calm  finger  points  up  to  the  summer  stars, 

And  so  go  down  the  cross  street  till  your  search  is 
Ended  when  you  hear  some  lilting  bars 

Of  music — some  warm  tenor  voice  is  singing 

That  old  berceuse  from   "Jocelyn"  .  .  .  then  a 
laugh ! 

That's  Alan,  bless  him!   Now  his  arm  he's  flinging 
Around  your  shoulder  and  life's  gained  a  half ! 

He's  waited  to  surprise  you — has  some  matter, 

Some  harebrained  scheme,  to  tell  to  you  alone; 
Then  down  the  three  stone  steps  you  two  will 
clatter, 

And  all  the  worries  of  your  day  have  flown ! 

See!  there's  "The  Senor, "  plump  and  rosy;  meets 
you 

And  smiles  his  "Messieurs"  as  you  troop  on 
through 

The  kitchen,   where  the  steam  of  cooking  greets 
you, 

And  reach  the  tiny  yard,  and  join  the  crew! 


346 


Youth 


You  never  went  there?    Well,   you  might  have 
wondered 

At  what  we  found  to  make  us  like  the  place: 
It  wasn't  much  to  see;  sometimes  they  blundered, 
And  served  us  meals  that  merited  no  grace; 

The  tableware  was  cracked,  the  forks  were  greasy, 
They  charged  fantastic  sums  for  their  cigars; 

But  still  the  waiters  always  smiled  their  "Si,  si." 
And  it  was  pleasant,  underneath  the  stars. 

Perhaps  it  wasn't  all  my  fancy  painted: 

I  only  know  that  something  seemed  to  give 

The  simplest  speech  a  magic  unacquainted, 

And  all  our  words  (of  course)  were  bound  to  live ! 

What  was  its  secret  ?    I  can  not  explain  it. 

You  missed  it?    Then  you've  only  life's  flat  lees! 
Perhaps  to  go  back  would  be  to  profane  it, 

But,  oh,  how  gay  it  was!    What  prophecies! 


MACARONI 


Arthur  Guiterman 

'Tis  made  of  the  flour  of  wheat,  so  they  say, 
Although  I  confess  to  the  dawnings 

Of  doubt  how  they  mix  it  in  Avenue  A 
Before  it  is  dried  in  the  awnings. 

Fair  Italy's  sons  in  the  family  shed 

Alluringly  drape  it  and  coil  it; 
But  don't  be  afraid,  for  the  microbes  are  dead 

As  nails  when  you  properly  boil  it. 

'Tis  blithe  in  the  cellars  of  festive  New  York 

To  see  how  the  diners  assail  it ! 
Some  mince  it,  some  reel  up  its  lengths  on  a  fork, 

While  others  devoutly  inhale  it. 

It  should  be  absorbed  to  "Faniculi's"  strains, 

Or,  maybe,  to  "Santa  Lucia's." 
All  poets  agree  it  is  good  for  the  brains. 

The  best  may  be  had  at  Maria's. 

I  like  it  served  hotter,  by  twenty  degrees, 
Than  any  place  mentioned  by  Dante , 

Then,  quickly!    Beppino,  with  plenty  of  cheese, 
And  don't  you  forget  the  Chianti! 

347 


TWILIGHT  ON  SIXTH  AVENUE 


Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 

Over  the  tops  of  the  houses 

Twilight  and  sunset  meet, 
The  green,  diaphanous  dusk 

Sinks  to  the  eager  street. 

Astray  in  the  tangle  of  roofs 

Wanders  a  wind  of  June, 
The  dial  shines  in  the  clock-tower 

Like  the  face  of  a  strange-scrawled  moon. 

The  narrowing  lines  of  the  houses 

Palely  begin  to  gleam, 
And  the  hurrying  crowds  fade  softly 

Like  an  army  in  a  dream. 

Above  the  vanishing  faces 

A  phantom  train  flares  on, 
With  a  voice  that  shakes  the  shadows, — 

Diminishes,  and  is  gone. 

And  I  walk  with  the  journeying  throng 

In  such  a  solitude 
As  where  a  lonely  ocean 

Washes  a  lonely  wood. 


348 


THE  NIGHT  COURT 


Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell 
"Call  Rose  Costara!" 

Insolent  she  comes. 
The  watchers,  practiced,  keen,  turn  down  their  thumbs. 
The  walk,  the  talk,  the  face, — that  shell-pink  tint, — 
It  is  old  stuff;  they  read  her  like  coarse  print. 
Here  is  no  hapless  innocence  waylaid. 
This  is  a  stolid  worker  at  her  trade. 
Listening,  she  yawns ;  half  smiling,  undismayed, 
Shrugging  a  little  at  the  law's  delay, 
Bored  and  impatient  to  be  on  her  way. 
It  is  her  eighth  conviction.    Out  beyond  the  rail 
A  lady  novelist  in  search  of  types  turns  pale. 
She  meant  to  write  of  them  just  as  she  found  them, 
And  with  no  tears  of  maudlin  glamour  round  them, 
In  forceful,  virile  words,  harsh,  true  words,  without 
shame, 

Calling  an  ugly  thing,  boldly,  an  ugly  name; 
Sympathy,  velvet  glove,  on  purpose,  iron  hand. 
But  eighth  conviction!    All   the  phrases  she  had 
planned 

Fail;  "sullen, "  "vengeful,"  no,  she  isn't  that. 
No,  the  pink  face  beneath  the  hectic  hat 
Gives  back  her  own  aghast  and  sickened  stare 
With  a  detached  and  rather  cheerful  air, 

349 


350 


The  Night  Court 


And  then  the  little  novelist  sees  red. 
From  her  chaste  heart  all  clemency  is  fled. 
"Oh,  loathsome!  venomous!    Off  with  her  head! 
Call  Rose  Costara!"    But  before  you  stop, 
And  shelve  your  decent  rage, 

Let's  call  the  cop. 

Let's  call  the  plain-clothes  cop  who  brought  her  in. 
The  weary-eyed  night  watchman  of  the  law, 
A  shuffling  person  with  a  hanging  jaw, 
Loose-lipped  and  sallow,  rather  vague  of  chin, 
Comes  rubber-heeling  at  his  Honor's  rap. 
He  set  and  baited  and  then  sprung  the  trap — 
The  trap — by  his  unsavory  report. 
Let's  ask  him  why — but  first 

Let's  call  the  court. 

Not  only  the  grim  figure  in  the  chair, 

Sphinx-like  above  the  waste  and  wreckage  there, 

Skeptical,  weary  of  a  retold  tale, 

But  the  whole  humming  hive,  the  false,  the  frail, — 

An  old  young  woman  with  a  weasel  face, 

A  lying  witness  waiting  in  his  place, 

Two  ferret  lawyers  nosing  out  a  case, 

Reporters  questioning  a  Mexican, 

Sobbing  her  silly  heart  out  for  her  man, 

Planning  to  feature  her,  "lone,  desperate,  pretty," 

Yes,  call  the  court.    But  wait! 

Let's  call  the  city. 

Call  the  community!    Call  up,  call  down, 
Call  all  the  speeding,  mad,  unheeding  town ! 
Call  rags  and  tags  and  then  call  velvet  gown ! 


The  Night  Court 


35i 


Go,  summon  them  from  tenements  and  clubs, 
On  office  floors  and  over  steaming  tubs ! 
Shout  to  the  boxes  and  behind  the  scenes, 
Then  to  the  push-carts  and  the  limousines ! 
Arouse  the  lecture-room,  the  cabaret ! 
Confound  them  with  a  trumpet-blast  and  say, 
"Are  you  so  dull,  so  deaf  and  blind  indeed, 
That  you  mistake  the  harvest  for  the  seed?" 
Condemn  them  for — but  stay! 

Let's  call  the  code — 

That  facile  thing  they've  fashioned  to  their  mode : 
Smug  sophistries  that  smother  and  befool, 
That  numb  and  stultify;  that  clumsy  thing 
That  measures  mountains  with  a  three-foot  rule, 
And  plumbs  the  ocean  with  a  puddling-string — 
The  little,  brittle  code.    Here  is  the  root, 
Far  out  of  sight,  and  buried  safe  and  deep, 
And  Rose  Costara  is  the  bitter  fruit. 
On  every  limb  and  leaf,  death,  ruin,  creep. 

So,  lady  novelist,  go  home  again. 

Rub  biting  acid  on  your  little  pen. 

Look  back  and  out  and  up  and  in,  and  then 

Write  that  it  is  no  job  for  pruning-shears. 

Tell  them  to  dig  for  years  and  years  and  years 

The  twined  and  twisted  roots.    Blot  out  the  page; 

Invert  the  blundering  order  of  the  age; 

Reverse  the  scheme :  the  last  shall  be  the  first. 

Summon  the  system,  starting  with  the  worst — 

The  lying,  dying  code!    On,  down  the  line, 

The  city,  and  the  court,  the  cop.  Assign 

The  guilt,  the  blame,  the  shame !    Sting,  lash,  and  spur ! 

Call  each  and  all !    Call  us !    And  then  call  her ! 


UNION  SQUARE 


Walter  Malone 

I  watch  the  water  lilies  in  this  pond, 
The  white,  the  blue — the  yellow  and  the  red, 

The  sparrow  tripping  on  their  pads  beyond, 
And  splashing  dewdrops  on  his  wings  and  head. 

The  lotus,  like  a  Cleopatra  there, 

Reveals  a  bosom  with  a  roseate  glow, 

As  in  her  gorgeous  old  Egyptian  lair 
She  fascinated  heroes  long  ago. 

Adown  the  walk  a  throng  of  children  goes 
With  dewy  eyes  a-peep  through  hazy  curls, 

When  years  are  poems,  every  month  a  rose, 
All  morns  are  rubies  and  all  noons  are  pearls. 

Around  these  seats  I  see  a  motley  crowd 
Of  listless  loungers,  miserable  and  low, 

With  backs  bent  double,  wrinkled  faces  bowed, 
Or,  aimless,  straggling  by  with  footsteps  slow. 

With  corncob  pipes,  these  old  men  mumbling  sit, 
Forsaken,  friendless,  waiting  but  for  death, 

When,  like  the  dead  leaves  that  around  them  flit, 
They  fall  to  be  forgotten  in  a  breath. 
352 


Union  Square 


353 


And  here  a  hard-faced  girl  reclines  alone, 
Dreaming  of  dead  days  with  their  holy  calm, 

Before  her  happy  heart  was  turned  to  stone, 
And  slumber  to  her  spirit  brought  no  balm. 

Here  the  young  poet,  once  a  farmer  boy, 
Who  with  glad  heart  unto  the  city  came, 

Sees  manhood  years  his  high-born  hopes  destroy, 
And  slay  his  dreams  of  fortune  and  of  fame. 

When  night  descends,  electric  argent  lamps, 
Like  radiant  cactus  blossoms,  blaze  on  high ; 

The  city  seems  a  world  of  warlike  camps, 

While  Broadway  with  his  legions  thunders  by. 

In  gilt  play-houses  hundreds  sigh  to  see 
The  mimic  woes  of  actors  on  the  stage, 

But  not  one  tear  for  actual  grief  shall  be, 

The  snares  for  childhood  or  the  pangs  of  age. 

Around  this  Square  rich  men  and  women  ride, 
Bedizened  creatures  in  their  fashion  flaunt, 

While  this  starved  outcast,  planning  suicide, 
Steals  back  to  perish  in  his  dismal  haunt. 

Strange,  while  is  known  so  well  the  sparrow's  fall, 
Man  heeds  not  when  his  brother's  plaint  is  made; 

Stiange,  that  the  brightest,  whitest  light  of  all 
Should  cast  the  deepest  and  the  darkest  shade! 

But  still  the  world  denies  its  helping  hand 

To  those  most  worthy  of  its  love  and  care. 

If  Christ  returned  to-night,  He  too  would  stand 

Homeless  and  friendless,  here  in  Union  Square. 
23 


GRAMERCY  PARK 
Sara  Teasdale 

The  little  park  was  filled  with  peace, 
The  walks  were  carpeted  with  snow, 

But  every  iron  gate  was  locked, 

Lest,  if  we  entered,  peace  should  go. 

We  circled  it  a  dozen  times, 

The  wind  was  blowing  from  the  sea, 
I  only  felt  your  restless  eyes 

Whose  love  was  like  a  cloak  for  me. 

Oh  heavy  gates  that  fate  has  locked 
To  bar  the  joy  we  may  not  win, 

Peace  would  go  out  forevermore 
If  we  should  dare  to  enter  in. 


354 


CHELSEA,  i860 


Rt.  Rev.  Arthur  Cleveland  Coxe,  D.D. 

When  old  Canute  the  Dane 

Was  Merry  England's  king; 
A  thousand  years  agone,  and  more, 

As  ancient  rumours  sing; 
His  boat  was  rowing  down  the  Ouse, 

At  eve,  one  summer  day, 
Where  Ely's  tall  cathedral  peered 
■  Above  the  glassy  way. 


Anon,  sweet  music  on  his  ear 

Comes  floating  from  the  fane, 
And  listening,  as  with  all  his  soul, 

Sat  old  Canute  the  Dane; 
And  reverently  did  he  doff  his  crown 

To  join  the  clerkly  prayer, 
While  swelled  old  lauds  and  litanies 

Upon  the  stilly  air. 


Now,  who  shall  glide  on  Hudson's  breast 

At  eve  of  summer's  day, 
And  cometh  where  St.  Peter's  tower 

Peers  o'er  his  coasting  way; 
355 


356 


Chelsea 


A  moment  let  him  slack  his  oar 

And  speed  more  still  along, 
His  ear  shall  catch  those  very  notes 

Of  litany  and  song. 

The  Church  that  sang  those  anthem  prayers 

A  thousand  years  ago, 
Is  singing  yet  by  silver  Cam, 

And  here  by  Hudson's  flow: 
And  glorias  that  thrilled  the  heart 

Of  old  Canute  the  Dane 
Are  rising  yet,  at  noon  and  eve, 

From  Chelsea's  student  train. 


THE  PARKS 


Charles  Hanson  Towne 

There  are  green  islands  in  the  city  sea, 

Where  all  day  long,  the  endless,  passionate  waves 
Beat,  yet  destroy  not;  and  their  quiet  saves 

How  many  a  heart  grown  sick  with  memory ! 

Not  derelicts  alone  are  foundered  there, 

But  children  with  the  laughter  of  the  May — 
Bright  living  flowers — in  these  glad  gardens  play, 

Knowing,  yet  knowing  not,  the  town's  despair ! 

God  made  the  ocean,  where  tumultuousiy 

The  loud  storms  burst;  and  Babylon  he  made; 
Yet  all  the  hills  are  His,  dim  valley  and  glade — 

There  are  green  islands  in  the  city  sea. 


357 


NOTHING  TO  WEAR 


(Abridged) 

William  Allen  Butler 

Miss  Flora  M'Flimsey,  of  Madison  Square, 

Has  made  three  separate  journeys  to  Paris, 
And  her  father  assures  me,  each  time  she  was  there, 

That  she  and  her  friend  Mrs.  Harris 
(Not  the  lady  whose  name  is  so  famous  in  history, 
But  plain  Mrs.  H.,  without  romance  or  mystery) 
Spent  six  consecutive  weeks,  without  stopping, 
In  one  continuous  round  of  shopping — 
Shopping  alone,  and  shopping  together, 
At  all  hours  of  the  day,  and  in  all  sorts  of  weather, 
For  all  manner  of  things  that  a  woman  can  put 
On  the  crown  of  her  head,  or  the  sole  of  her  foot, 
Or  wrap  round  her  shoulders,  or  fit  round  her  waist, 
Or  that  can  be  sewed  on,  or  pinned  on,  or  laced, 
Or  tied  on  with  a  string,  or  stitched  on  with  a  bow, 
In  front  or  behind,  above  or  below; 
For  bonnets,  mantillas,  capes,  collars,  and  shawls; 
Dresses  for  breakfasts,  and  dinners,  and  balls; 
Dresses  to  sit  in,  to  stand  in,  to  walk  in; 
Dresses  to  dance  in,  and  flirt  in,  and  talk  in; 
Dresses  in  which  to  do  nothing  at  all; 
Dresses  for  Winter,  Spring,  Summer,  and  Fall — 

358 


Nothing  to  Wear 


359 


All  of  them  different  in  colour  and  shape, 
Silk,  muslin,  and  lace,  velvet,  satin,  and  crape, 
Brocade  and  broadcloth,  and  other  material, 
Quite  as  expensive  and  much  more  ethereal ; 
In  short,  for  all  things  that  could  ever  be  thought  of, 
Or  milliner,  modiste,  or  tradesman  be  bought  of, 
From   ten-thousand-franc   robes   to  twenty-sous 
frills; 

In  all  quarters  of  Paris,  and  to  every  store, 
While  M'Flimsey  in  vain  stormed,   scolded,  and 
swore, 

They  footed  the  streets,  and  he  footed  the  bills ! 
And  yet,  though  scarce  three  months  have  passed 
since  the  day 

This  merchandise  went,  on  twelve  carts,  up  Broad- 
way, 

This  same  Miss  M'Flimsey,  of  Madison  Square, 
The  last  time  we  met  was  in  utter  despair, 
Because  she  had  nothing  whatever  to  wear! 
Nothing  to  Wear  !    Now,  as  this  is  a  true  ditty, 

I  do  not  assert — this,  you  know,  is  between  us — 
That  she's  in  a  state  of  absolute  nudity, 

Like  Powers'  Greek  Slave  or  the  Medici  Venus; 
But  I  do  mean  to  say,  I  have  heard  her  declare, 

When  at  the  same  moment  she  had  on  a  dress 

Which  cost  five  hundred  dollars,  and  not  a  cent 
less, 

And  jewelry  worth  ten  times  more,  i  should  guess, 
That  she  had  not  a  thing  in  the  wide  world  to  wear ! 

Researches  in  some  of  the  "Upper  Ten"  districts 
Reveal  the  most  painful  and  startling  statistics, 
Of  which  let  me  mention  only  a  few : 
In  one  single  house  on  the  Fifth  Avenue 


36o 


Nothing  to  Wear 


Three  young  ladies  were  found,  all  below  twenty- 
two, 

Who  have  been  three  whole  weeks  without  anything 
new 

In  the  way  of  flounced  silks,  and  thus  left  in  the 
lurch 

Are  unable  to  go  to  ball,  concert,  or  church. 
In  another  large  mansion,  near  the  same  place, 
Was  found  a  deplorable,  heart-rending  case 
Of  entire  destitution  of  Brussels  point-lace. 
In  a  neighbouring  block  there  was  found,  in  three 
calls, 

Total  want,  long  continued,  of  camel's-hair  shawls; 
And  a  suffering  family,  whose  case  exhibits 
The  most  pressing  need  of  real  ermine  tippets ; 
One  deserving  lady  almost  unable 
To  survive  for  the  want  of  a  new  Russian  sable; 
Still  another,  whose  tortures  have  been  most  terrific 
Ever  since  the  sad  loss  of  the  steamer  Pacific, 
In  which  were  engulfed,  not  friend  or  relation 
(For  whose  fate  she  perhaps  might  have  found  con- 
solation, 

Or  borne  it,  at  least,  with  serene  resignation), 
But  the  choicest  assortment  of  French  sleeves  and 
collars 

Ever  sent  out  from  Paris,  worth  thousands  of  dollars, 

And  all  as  to  style  most  recherche  and  rare, 

The  want  of  which  leaves  her  with  nothing  to  wear, 

And  renders  her  life  so  drear  and  dyspeptic 

That  she's  quite  a  recluse,  and  almost  a  sceptic, 

For  she  touchingly  says  that  'this  sort  of  grief 

Cannot  find  in  Religion  the  slightest  relief, 

And  Philosophy  has  not  a  maxim  to  spare 

For  the  victims  of  such  overwhelming  despair. 


Nothing  to  Wear  361 


Won't  some  kind  philanthropist,  seeing  that  aid  is 
So  needed  at  once  by  these  indigent  ladies, 
Take  charge  of  the  matter?    Or  won't  Peter  Cooper 
The  corner-stone  lay  of  some  new  splendid  super- 
Structure,  like  that  which  to-day  links  his  name 
In  the  Union  unending  of  Honor  and  Fame, 
And  found  a  new  charity  just  for  the  care 
Of  these  unhappy  women  with  nothing  to  wear? 


MADISON  SQUARE:  CHRISTMAS 


Brian  Hooker 

Here  is  our  worth.    We  cannot  rear  the  towers 
Of  other  times,  nor  bid  our  deeds  remain 
Where  lesser  generations  dream  in  vain, 

Nor  sing  their  songs,  nor  crown  us  with  their  flowers. 

The  kingdoms  and  the  glories  and  the  powers 
Have  been ;  yet  it  may  be  the  slow  years  gain 
A  thought  more  sorrow  for  a  brother's  pain, 

A  little  joy  in  other  joy  than  ours. 

We  in  whose  sight  the  world  is  newly  known, 
Shall  we  match  works  with  Babylon,  or  wars 
With  Rome,  or  arts  with  Athens  ?  Which  of  them 
Will  praise  our  pride?    This  only  is  our  own — 
This  dead  tree  blossoming  a  thousand  stars, 
And  every  one  a  Star  of  Bethlehem. 


362 


THE  CLOCK  IN  THE  AIR 


John  Curtis  Underwood 

High  on  Manhattan's  tallest  tower 

The  clock  keeps  watch  and  tells  the  hour. 

The  chimes  ring  out  their  reveille. 

The  city  wakes  and  turns  to  see 

Its  campanile's  shaft  of  light 

Against  the  sunrise.    All  the  night 

It  points  its  ringer  to  the  sky. 

All  day  the  multitudes  march  by; 
While  like  a  skylark's  song  there  falls 
To  waken  souls  in  prison  walls 
To  thoughts  of  meadows  far  away 
From  dusty  rooms  that  hide  the  day; 
Of  snowpeaks  and  the  open  sea ; 
Of  all  the  city's  symphony 
This  note  supernal  and  supreme 
Teaching  the  toilers  how  to  dream. 


363 


THE  METROPOLITAN  TOWER 


Sara  Teasdale 

We  walked  together  in  the  dusk 

To  watch  the  tower  grow  dimly  white, 

And  saw  it  lift  against  the  sky- 
Its  flower  of  amber  light. 

You  talked  of  half  a  hundred  things, 
I  kept  each  little  word  you  said ; 

And  when  at  last  the  hour  was  full, 
I  saw  the  light  turn  red. 

You  did  not  know  the  time  had  come, 
You  did  not  see  the  sudden  flower, 

Nor  know  that  in  my  heart  Love's  birth 
Was  reckoned  from  that  hour. 


364 


AT  THE  FARRAGUT  STATUE 


Robert  Bridges 

To  live  a  hero,  then  to  stand 

In  bronze  serene  above  the  city's  throng; 
Hero  at  sea,  and  now  on  land 

Revered  by  thousands  as  they  rush  along . 

If  these  were  all  the  gifts  of  fame — 

To  be  a  shade  amid  alert  reality, 
And  win  a  statue  and  a  name — 

How  cold  and  cheerless  immortality ! 

But  when  the  sun  shines  in  the  Square, 
And  multitudes  are  swarming  in  the  street, 

Children  are  always  gathered  there, 

Laughing  and  playing  round  the  hero's  feet. 

And  in  the  crisis  of  the  game — 

With  boyish  grit  and  ardor  it  is  played — 

You'll  hear  some  youngster  call  his  name: 
"The  Admiral — he  never  was  afraid!" 

And  so  the  hero  daily  lives, 

And  boys  grow  braver  as  the  Man  they  see! 
The  inspiration  that  he  gives 

Still  helps  to  make  them  loyal,  strong,  and  free! 


365 


THE  LITTLE  CHURCH  AROUND  THE  CORNER 
John  Myers  O'Hara 

In  meek  seclusion  where  cathedrals  vie, 

It  shuns  the  shining  dome  and  spires  of  pride; 

Content  to  nestle  undiscerned  beside 
The  street  where  wealth  and  fashion  pass  it  by ; 
A  refuge  for  the  spirit's  inmost  sigh, 

With  prayer's  consoling  hush  to  none  denied ; 

It  keeps  the  faith  for  hearts  that  still  confide, 
Renunciation  that  no  pomps  belie. 
And  many  pass  its  portal  shrine  nor  stay 

The  hurried  step,  impatient  of  its  peace; 
But  when  the  pageant  vanishes  with  day 

And  all  the  lures  of  gain  and  glory  cease, 
One  enters,  sad  as  Dante,  long  ago, 
The  convent  gate  of  Fra  Hilario. 


366 


QUALITY  HILL 


Clinton  Scollard 

Quality  Hill !    It  looked  down  on  the  town 

With  a  tinge  of  contempt,  a  suspicion  of  frown; 

And  why  should  it  not,  if  you'll  please  to  declare, 

With  the  atmosphere  such  a  superior  air, 

And  the  earth  to  be  trod,  any  hour  in  the  day, 

Of  a  texture  more  fine  than  mere  commonplace  clay? 

Quality  Hill !    As  you  clambered  the  slope, 
With  each  step  of  ascent  (to  make  use  of  a  trope) 
An  attar  pervasive,  by  some  subtle  stealth, 
Began  to  steal  out  from  the  roses  of  Wealth; 
And  wherever  you  fared,  you  beheld  on  each  side 
A  presence  arrayed  in  the  trappings  of  Pride. 

Quality  Hill!    There  the  blood  it  ran  blue; 
There  was  more  than  one  crest;  there  were  quarter- 
ings,  too. 

Yet  small  quarter  they  gave  to  the  stranger  that 
came, 

Those  who  bowed  before  Fashion,  that  debonair 

dame, 

Unless  the  new-comer  crept  into  the  fold 
Through  the  magical  sign  of  the  Goddess  of  Gold ! 

367 


368 


Quality  Hill 


Quality  Hill !    There  was  satin  and  silk 
For  "my  lady, "  and  dresses  as  snowy  as  milk; 
There  was  poise,  there  was  pose;  there  was  plenty  of 
art, 

But  who  dare  assert  that  beneath  it  was  heart? 
And  envy  and  malice?    But,  stay!  Could  aught  ill 
(God's  grace!)  have  a  place  upon  Quality  Hill? 

Quality  Hill !    Lo !  it  nourishes  still ! 
And  who  can  deny  that  forever  it  will? 
A  blending  of  breeding  with  puff  and  with  plume; 
A  strange  sort  of  mixture  of  rick  and  mushroom. 
Some  amble,  some  scramble,   (some   gamble!)  to 
fill 

The  motley  and  medley  of  Quality  Hill. 


THE  GATEWAY 


The  Pennsylvania  Railroad  Station,  New  York 

Harvey  Maitland  Watts 

What  Rome  in  sheer  abandonment  of  pride 
Flung  free  on  high  for  Purple  Ease  a  lair, 
Fretted  with  gold,  a-gleam  with  spoils  most  rare, 
Here,  to  a  nobler  use  soars  purified. 
While  from  its  silent  depths  controlled  glide 
The  slaving  monsters  as  the  people  fare — 
Of  all  things  past  the  free,  resplendent  heir — 
Holding  the  earth  in  leash  with  naught  untried. 
Lo !  'neath  these  vaultings  how  oblivion  sweeps 
The  older  portals!    What  the  Golden  Horn? 
Or  Venice,  dreaming  where  soft  waters  swoon? 
Or  Atlas  towering  o'er  grey  ocean's  deep? 
Here,  where  this  titan  gateway  greets  the  morn 
Glad  millions  press  to  life's  exultant  noon ! 


369 


THE  SWITCH  YARD 


John  Curtis  Underwood 

Out  of  the  glimmer  of  arc  lights  and  spaces  of  shade, 
Far  on  the  frontier  the  city  has  won  from  the  dark, 
Rails  in  the  moonlight  in  ribbons  of  silver  are  laid. 
Eyes  that  are  watchful  the  loom  of  the  switch  yard 

shall  mark, 
Ears  that  are  keen  to  its  music  shall  hark. 

Red,  green,  and  gold  are  the  signals  that  mark  the 

design. 

Black  is  the  ground  where  the  work  of  the  weaver  is 
spread. 

Bright  in  the  night  is  the  glittering  length  of  the 
line, 

Swiftly  and  strongly  and  surely  the  shuttles  are  sped 
Bringing  and  braiding  and  breaking  the  thread. 

Clicking  of  switches  and  resonant  rolling  of  wheels 
Mix  in  the  midnight  with  stifled  escape  of  the  steam. 
Down  the  long  siding  a  shadowed  shape  silently 

steals, 

Sudden  it  checks;  and  the  gride  of  the  brakes  is  a 

scream, 

The  sound  of  a  rent  in  the  stuff  of  the  dream. 

370 


The  Switch  Yard 


37i 


Stars  in  their  courses  in  switch  yards  of  uttermost 
space, 

Thrills  in  the  ether  that  galaxies,  systems,  obey 
Meshes  immortal  of  motion  and  matter  to  trace; 
Feel  as  they  reel  and  they  race  down  Heaven's  perman- 
ent way 

Past  the  tall  signal  tower  holding  the  void  in  survey. 


HERALD  SQUARE 


John  Curtis  Underwood 

You  who  have  felt  the  pressure  and  made  good, 
Who  cold  and  hungry  heard  the  presses  thunder; 

And  watched  with  eyes  that  little  understood 
Sheet  after  sheet  show  white,  and  double  under; 

And  saw  beside  you  there  some  face  of  wood, 
Some  well-clad  idler's  stare  of  vacant  wonder; 

Clubman,  collegian,  child  or  priest  or  maid: 
Have  you  not  envied  them  their  careless  faces, 

Their  lives  untried,  untainted,  unafraid; 

Their  linen  white?    These  are  the  printless  spaces, 

The  margins  for  your  mark.    His  ink  may  fade, 
God's  sheet  moves  on.    You  would  not  change  your 
places. 


372 


THREE  O'CLOCK 


Morning 

Ridgely  Torrance 


The  jewel-blue  electric  flowers 

Are  cold  upon  their  iron  trees. 
Upraised,  the  deadly  harp  of  rails 

Whines  for  its  interval  of  ease. 
The  stones  keep  all  their  daily  speech 

Buried,  but  can  no  more  forget 
Than  would  a  water-vacant  beach 

The  hour  when  it  was  wet. 


A  whitened  few  wane  out  like  moons, 

Ghastly,  from  some  torn  edge  of  shade; 
A  drowning  one,  a  reeling  one, 

And  one  still  loitering  after  trade. 
On  high  the  candour  of  the  clock 

Portions  the  dark  with  solemn  sound. 
The  burden  of  the  bitten  rock 

Moans  up  from  underground. 


Far  down  the  streets  a  shutting  door 
Echoes  the  yesterday  that  fled 

Among  the  days  that  should  have  been, 
Which  people  cities  of  the  dead. 
373 


Three  O'Clock 


The  banners  of  the  steam  unfold 
Upon  the  towers  to  meet  the  day; 

The  lights  go  out  in  red  and  gold, 
But  Time  goes  out  in  grey. 


NIGHT  IN  NEW  YORK 


George  Parsons  Lathrop 

Haunted  by  unknown  feet — 
Ways  of  the  midnight  hour ! 
Strangely  you  murmur  below  me, 
Strange  is  your  half -silent  power. 
Places  of  life  and  of  death, 
Numbered  and  named  as  streets, 
What,  through  your  channels  of  stone, 
Is  the  tide  that  unweariedly  beats? 
A  whisper,  a  sigh-laden  breath, 
Is  all  that  I  hear  of  its  flowing, 
Footsteps  of  stranger  and  foe — 
Footsteps  of  friends,  could  we  meet  them — 
Alike  to  me  in  my  sorrow; 
Alike  to  a  life  left  alone. 
Yet  swift  as  my  heart  they  throb, 
They  fall  thick  as  tears  on  the  stone: 
My  spirit  perchance  may  borrow 
New  strength  from  their  eager  tone. 

Still  ever  that  slip  and  slide 
Of  the  feet  that  shuffle  or  glide, 
And  linger  or  haste  through  the  populous  waste 
Of  the  shadowy,  dim-lit  square ! 

375 


Night  in  New  York 


And  I  know  not,  from  the  sound, 

As  I  sit  and  ponder  within, 

The  goal  to  which  those  steps  are  bound, — 

On  hest  of  mercy,  or  hest  of  sin, 

Or  joy's  short-measured  round ; 

Yet  a  meaning  deeper  they  bear 

In  their  vaguely  muffled  din. 

Roar  of  the  multitude, 
Chafe  of  the  million-crowd, 
To  this  you  are  all  subdued 
In  the  murmurous,  sad  night-air! 
Yet  whether  you  thunder  aloud, 
Or  hush  your  tone  to  a  prayer, 
You  chant  amain  through  the  modern  maze 
The  only  epic  of  our  days. 

Still  as  death  are  the  places  of  life; 
The  city  seems  crumbled  and  gone, 
Sunk  'mid  invisible  deeps — 
The  city  so  lately  rife 
With  the  stir  of  brain  and  brawn. 
Haply  it  only  sleeps; 
But  what  if  indeed  it  were  dead, 
And  another  earth  should  arise 
To  greet  the  grey  of  the  dawn? 
Faint  then  our  epic  would  wail 
To  those  who  should  come  in  our  stead. 
But  what  if  the  earth  were  ours? 
What  if,  with  holier  eyes, 
We  should  meet  the  new  hope,  and  not  fail? 

Weary  the  night  grows  pale: 
With  a  blush  as  of  opening  flowers 


Night  in  New  York 


Dimly  the  East  shines  red. 

Can  it  be  that  the  morn  shall  fulfil 

My  dream,  and  refashion  our  clay 

As  the  poet  may  fashion  his  rhyme? 

Hark  to  that  mingled  scream 

Rising  from  workshop  and  mill — 

Hailing  some  marvellous  sight ; 

Mighty  breath  of  the  hours, 

Poured  through  the  trumpets  of  steam; 

Awful  tornado  of  time, 

Blowing  us  whither  it  will ! 

God  has  breathed  in  the  nostrils  of  night, 
And  behold,  it  is  day! 


RAINY  SUNDAY 


John  Hall  Wheelock 

The  soft,  grey  garment  of  the  rushing  rain 
Veils  in  the  lonely,  Sunday  streets  afar. 
The  passengers  sit  dumb  within  the  car — 

Slow  drops  slip  wearily  down  the  window-pane. 

A  funeral  procession  takes  its  way 

Across  the  tracks,  the  car  stands  still  a  space, 
All  eyes  are  turned  and  every  anxious  face, — 

Save  one,  that  laughs  oblivious  of  delay. 

Holding  her  baby  close  against  her  breast, 
The  heart  of  love,  too  glad  to  comprehend, 
And  Life  at  war  with  Death  until  the  end, 

The  mother  throned  serene  amid  the  rest. 


378 


BROADWAY 


Walt  Whitman 

What  hurrying  human  tides,  or  day  or  night ! 
What  passions,  winnings,  losses,  ardours,  swim  thy 
waters ! 

What  whirls  of  evil,  bliss  and  sorrow,  stem  thee! 

What  curious  questioning  glances — glints  of  love! 

Leer,  envy,  scorn,  contempt,  hope,  aspiration! 

Thou  portal — thou  arena — thou  of  the  myriad  long- 
drawn  lines  and  groups ! 

(Could  but  thy  flagstones,  curbs,  facades,  tell  their 
inimitable  tales ; 

Thy  windows  rich,  and  huge  hotels — thy  sidewalks 
wide;) 

Thou  of  the  endless  sliding,  mincing,  shuffling  feet ! 
Thou,    like   the   parti-coloured    world  itself — like 

infinite,  teeming,  mocking  life ! 
Thou  visor'd,  vast,  unspeakable  show  and  lesson ! 


379 


THE  CITY 


Richard  Watson  Gilder 

Oh,  dear  is  the  song  of  the  pine 

When  the  wind  of  the  night-time  blows, 
And  dear  is  the  murmuring  river 

That  afar  through  my  childhood  flows; 
And  soft  is  the  raindrops'  beat 

And  the  fountain's  lyric  play, 
But  to  me  no  music  is  half  so  sweet 

As  the  thunder  of  Broadway ! 

Stream  of  the  living  world 

Where  dash  the  billows  of  strife! — 
One  plunge  in  the  mighty  torrent 

Is  a  year  of  tamer  life! 
City  of  glorious  days, 

Of  hope,  and  labour,  and  mirth, 
With  room,  and  to  spare,  on  thy  splendid  bays 

For  the  ships  of  all  the  earth ! 


380 


LILACS  IN  THE  CITY 


Brian  Hooker 

Amid  the  rush  and  fever  of  the  street, 

The   snarl   and   clash   of   countless  quarrelling 
bells, 

And  the  sick,  heavy  heat, 

The  hissing  footsteps,  and  the  hateful  smells, 
I  found  you,  speaking  quietly 
Of  sunlit  hill-horizons  and  clean  earth ; 

While  the  pale  multitude  that  may  not  dare 
To  pause  and  live  a  moment,  lest  they  die, 

Swarmed  onward  with  hot  eyes,  and  left  you 
there — 

An  armful  of  God's  glory,  nothing  worth. 

You  are  more  beautiful  than  I  can  know. 

Even  one  loving  you  might  gaze  an  hour 
Nor  learn  the  perfect  glow 

Of  line  and  tint  in  one  small,  purple  flower. 
There  are  no  two  of  you  the  same, 
And  every  one  is  wonderful  and  new — 

Poor  baby  blossoms  that  have  died  unblown, 
And  you  that  droop  yourselves  as  if  for  shame, 

You  too  are  perfect.    I  had  hardly  known 
The  grace  of  your  glad  sisters  but  for  you. 

381 


Lilacs  in  the  City 


You  myriad  of  little  litanies ! 

Not  as  our  bitter  piety,  subdued 
To  cold  creed  that  denies 

Or  lying  law  that  severs  glad  and  good ; 
But  like  a  child's  eyes  after  sleep 
Uplifted;  like  a  girl's  first  wordless  prayer 

Close-held  by  him  who  loves  her — no  distress, 
No  storm  of  supplication,  but  a  deep, 

Dear  heartache  of  such  utter  happiness 
As  only  utter  purity  can  bear. 

For  you  are  all  the  robin  feels  at  dawn ; 

The  meaning  of  great  dimness,  and  calm  moons 
On  high  fields  far  withdrawn, 

Where  the  haze  glimmers  and  the  wild  bee  croons. 
You  are  the  soul  of  a  June  night : — 
Intimate  joy  of  moon-swept  vale  and  glade, 

Warm  fragrance  breathing  upward  from  the  ground, 
And  eager  winds  tremulous  with  sharp  delight 

Till  all  the  tense-tuned  gloom  thrills  like  a  sound — 
Mystery  of  sweet  passion  unafraid. 

0  sweet,  sweet,  sweet!    You  are  the  proof  of  all 

That  over-truth  our  dreams  have  memory  of 
That  day  cannot  recall : 

Work  without  weariness,  and  tearless  love, 
And  taintless  laughter.    While  we  run 
To  measure  dust,  and  sounding  names  are  hurled 

Into  the  nothingness  of  days  unborn, 
You  hold  your  little  hearts  up  to  the  sun, 

Quietly  beautiful  amid  our  scorn — 
God's  answer  to  the  wisdom  of  this  world. 


THE  LITTLE  FRUIT-SHOP 

Florence  Wilkinson  Evans 

The  little  Broadway  fruit-shop  bursts  and  glows 
Like  a  stained-glass  window  rioting  through  the 
gloom 

Of  a  grim  facade;  a  garden  over  seas; 
A  Syracusan  idyl ;  a  lilt  that  flows 
In  chords  of  dusk-red  colour;  emerald  bloom 
Loved  by  the  nightingale,  voice  of  the  voiceless 
trees ; 

Ripe  orchards  mellow  with  innumerable  bees. 

A  dark  Greek  boy  counts  up  with  supple  hands 

Lucent  rotundities,  the  Bacchic  grape 

In  luscious  pyramids,  pears  like  a  lute 

Most  musically  carved,  nuts  from  sweet  lands 

Demeter  lost;  oh,  many  a  sculptured  shape;— 

Had  he  his  panther-skin,  the  thyrsus  and  the  flute, — 

Lo,  a  swart  faun-god  mid  his  votive  fruit. 


383 


NEW  YORK 

Richard  Hovey 

The  low  line  of  the  walls  that  lie  outspread 

Miles  on  long  miles,  the  fog  and  smoke  and  slime, 

The  wharves  and  ships  with  flags  of  every  clime, 

The  domes  and  steeples  rising  overhead ! 

It  is  not  these.    Rather  it  is  the  tread 

Of  the  million  heavy  feet  that  keep  sad  time 

To  heavy  thoughts,  the  want  that  mothers  crime, 

The  weary  toiling  for  a  bitter  bread, 

The  perishing  of  poets  for  renown, 

The  shriek  of  shame  from  the  concealing  waves. 

Ah,  me!  how  many  heart-beats  day  by  day 

Go  to  make  up  the  life  of  the  vast  town ! 

0  myriad  dead  in  unremembered  graves! 

0  torrent  of  the  living  down  Broadway ! 


384 


TO  A  NEW  YORK  SHOP-GIRL  DRESSED  FOR 
SUNDAY 


Anna  Hempstead  Branch 

To-day  I  saw  the  shop-girl  go 

Down  gay  Broadway  to  meet  her  beau. 

Conspicuous,  splendid,  conscious,  sweet, 
She  spread  abroad  and  took  the  street. 

And  all  that  niceness  would  forbid, 
Superb,  she  smiled  upon  and  did. 

Let  other  girls,  whose  happier  days 
Preserve  the  perfume  of  their  ways, 

Go  modestly.    The  passing  hour 
Adds  splendor  to  their  opening  flower. 

But  from  this  child  too  swift  a  doom 
Must  steal  her  prettiness  and  bloom. 

Toil  and  weariness  hide  the  grace 
That  pleads  a  moment  from  her  face. 

So  blame  her  not  if  for  a  day 

She  flaunts  her  glories  while  she  may. 


She  half  perceives,  half  understands, 
Snatching  her  gifts  with  both  her  hands. 
25  385 


To  a  Shop-Girl  Dressed  for  Sunday 

The  little  strut  beneath  the  skirt 
That  lags  neglected  in  the  dirt, 

The  indolent  swagger  down  the  street — 
Who  can  condemn  such  happy  feet ! 

Innocent !  vulgar — that's  the  truth ! 
Yet  with  the  daring  wiles  of  youth ! 

The  bright,  self-conscious  eyes  that  stare 
With  such  hauteur,  beneath  such  hair! 
Perhaps  the  men  will  find  me  fair! 

Charming  and  charmed,  flippant,  arrayed, 
Fluttered  and  foolish,  proud,  displayed, 
Infinite  pathos  of  parade ! 

The  bangles  and  the  narrowed  waist — 
The  tinselled  boa — forgive  the  taste! 
Oh,  the  starved  nights  she  gave  for  that, 
And  bartered  bread  to  buy  her  hat ! 

She  flows  before  the  reproachful  sage 
And  begs  her  woman's  heritage. 

Dear  child,  with  the  defiant  eyes, 
Insolent  with  the  half  surmise 
We  do  not  quite  admire,  I  know 
How  foresight  frowns  on  this  vain  show ! 

And  judgment,  wearily  sad,  may  see 
No  grace  in  such  frivolity. 

Yet  which  of  us  was  ever  bold 

To  worship  Beauty,  hungry  and  cold! 


To  a  Shop-Girl  Dressed  for  Sunday  387 

Scorn  famine  down,  proudly  expressed 
Apostle  to  what  things  are  best. 

Let  him  who  starves  to  buy  the  food 
For  his  soul's  comfort  find  her  good, 

Nor  chide  the  frills  and  furbelows 
That  are  the  prettiest  things  she  knows. 

Poet  and  prophet  in  God's  eyes 
Make  no  more  perfect  sacrifice. 

Who  knows  before  what  inner  shrine 
She  eats  with  them  the  bread  and  wine? 

Poor  waif!    One  of  the  sacred  few 
That  madly  sought  the  best  they  knew! 

Dear — let  me  lean  my  cheek  to-night 
Close,  close  to  yours.    Ah,  that  is  right. 

How  warm  and  near !    At  last  I  see 
One  beauty  shines  for  thee  and  me. 

So  let  us  love  and  understand — 
Whose  hearts  are  hidden  in  God's  hand. 

And  we  will  cherish  your  brief  Spring 
And  all  its  fragile  flowering. 

God  loves  all  prettiness,  and  on  this 
Surely  his  angels  lay  their  kiss. 


ON  BROADWAY 


George  Sylvester  Viereck 

Great  jewels  glitter  like  a  wizard's  rain 

Of  pearl  and  ruby  in  the  women's  hair. 
And  all  the  men — each  drags  a  golden  chain, 

As  though  he  walked  in  freedom.    In  the  glare, 
Luxurious-cushioned,  wheels  a  revel-train 

Where  kings  of  song  with  weary  feet  have  trod, 
Where  Poe,  sad  priest  to  Beauty  and  to  Pain, 

Bore  through  the  night  the  Vision  and  the  God. 

And  yet,  perhaps,  in  this  assemblage  vast, 

In  some  poor  heart  sounds  the  enraptured  chord, 
And  staggering  homeward  from  a  hopeless  quest 
The  God-annointed  touched  me,  meanly  dressed 
And,  like  a  second  Peter,  I  have  passed 
Without  salute  the  vessel  of  the  Lord. 


IN  BROADWAY 


Vance  Thompson 

I  walk  in  Broadway  to  and  fro 

With  the  taciturn  ghost  of  Edgar  Poe. 

Girls  idle  for  us  when  the  lights 

Are  red  on  the  pavement  there  o'  nights. 

Girls  .sidle  with  strenuous  eyes  for  us, 

With  gestures  urgent  and  amorous; 

But  we  mock  them,  pacing  to  and  fro — 

I  and  the  ghost  of  Edgar  Poe. 

"  Dear  Ghost, "  I  say  to  him,  "to  and  fro 
As  you  walked  in  Broadway  long  ago 
Did  the. small  girls  idle  for  you  and  cry?" 
1 '  Ho !  the  black  stars  swung  in  a  yellow  sky 
One  night,  one  night — and  a  woman  came 
Out  of  a  harem  of  wind-blown  flame; 
But  the  lips  that  she  laid  on  mine  were  snow — 
Bitter  as  ice, "  says  the  ghost  of  Poe. 

I  make  the  sign  of  the  cross. 


389 


THE  WHITE  LIGHTS 


Broadway,  1906 

Edward  Arlington  Robinson 

When  in  from  Delos  came  the  gold 
That  held  the  dream  of  Pericles, 
When  first  Athenian  ears  were  told 
The  tumult  of  Euripides, 
When  men  met  Aristophanes, 
Who  fledged  them  with  immortal  quills — 
Here,  where  the  time  knew  none  of  these, 
There  were  some  islands  and  some  hills. 

When  Rome  went  ravening  to  see 

The  sons  of  mothers  end  their  days, 

When  Flaccus  had  Leuconoe 

To  banish  her  Chaldean  ways, 

When  first  the  pearled,  alembic  phrase 

Of  Maro  into  music  ran, 

Here  there  was  neither  blame  nor  praise 

For  Rome  or  for  the  Mantuan. 

When  Avon,  like  a  faery  floor, 
Lay  freighted,  for  the  eyes  of  One, 
With  galleons  laden  long  before 
By  moonlit  wharves  in  Avalon — 
390 


The  White  Lights 


Here,  where  the  white  lights  have  begun 
To  seethe  a  way  for  something  fair, 
No  prophet  knew,  from  what  was  done, 
That  there  was  triumph  in  the  air. 


AFTER  THE  PLAY 


Broadway,  19 16 

Hamilton  Fish  Armstrong 

The  great  gold  room  is  heavy  with  the  scent 

Of  flowers  crushed  by  dancers,  and  smoke,  and  wine; 

The  little  tables  with  clustered  glasses  shine. 

And  always  through  the  buzzing  merriment 

And  through  the  thump  of  tired  musicians'  play 

I  hear  the  drums  an  ocean's  breadth  away — 

Away — and  shaded  candles  hiss  and  dance 
Into  the  air — and  burst — my  pulses  quiver — 
I  smell  the  stinking  field,  and  'cross  the  river 
I  see  a  fringe  of  mud-swamped  guns  that  glance 
When  shells  come  whining  toward  the  bitter  pit 
Of  ploughed-up  reddened  muck  and  powder-grit — 

Ploughed-up  and  red  with  blood.    But  what  is 
blood 

To  placid  prattlers  in  another  world, 
Who  only  recall  the  showy  flags  unfurled 
And  waving  scarfs,  as  on  the  curb  they  stood 
Some  years  ago  and  watched  a  regiment  pass 
With  jaunty  step  and  cheerful  blare  of  brass? 

392 


After  the  Play 


393 


Yes,  what  is  blood  to  those  in  puppet-land? 
Hung  on  a  new  gilt  cord  they  jerk  and  swing 
Compliant  with  the  propitious  breeze  and  sing 
Self-satisfied  thoughtless  tunes,  nor  seek  the  hand 
That  strings  them  there — discreet  torpidity, 
With  ears  that  hear  not,  eyes  that  will  not  see. 

There  is  a  sudden  stir,  and  waiters  run 
To  catch  a  man  whose  flabby  face  goes  grey. 
"He's  dead!"  the  whisper  comes.    The  musicians' 
play 

Stops.    A  few  white-lipped  women  have  begun 
To  cry  a  little.    And  all  are  soon  outside. 
Yet  this  day  twenty  thousand  men  have  died. 


A  RHYME  ABOUT  AN  ELECTRICAL 
ADVERTISING  SIGN 


Vachel  Lindsay 

I  look  on  the  specious  electrical  light 

Blatant,  mechanical,  crawling  and  white, 

Wickedly  red  or  malignantly  green 

Like  the  beads  of  a  young  Senegambian  queen. 

Showing,  while  millions  of  souls  hurry  on, 

The  virtues  of  collars,  from  sunset  till  dawn, 

By  dart  or  by  tumble  of  whirl  within  whirl, 

Starting  new  fads  for  the  shame-weary  girl, 

By  maggoty  motions  in  sickening  line 

Proclaiming  a  hat  or  a  soup  or  a  wine, 

While  there  far  above  the  steep  cliffs  of  the  street 

The  stars  sing  a  message  elusive  and  sweet. 

Now  man  cannot  rest  in  his  pleasure  and  toil 
His  clumsy  contraptions  of  coil  upon  coil 
Till  the  thing  he  invents,  in  its  use  and  its  range, 
Leads  on   to   the   marvellous    Change  Beyond 
Change. 

Some  day  this  old  Broadway  shall  climb  to  the 
skies, 

As  a  ribbon  of  cloud  on  a  soul-wind  shall  rise, 
And  we  shall  be  lifted,  rejoicing  by  night, 
Till  we  join  with  the  planets  who  choir  their  delight. 

39,4 


An  Electrical  Advertising  Sign  395 

The  signs  in  the  streets  and  the  signs  in  the  skies 
Shall  make  a  new  Zodiac,  guiding  the  wise, 
And  Broadway  make  one  with  that  marvellous  stair 
That  is  climbed  by  the  rainbow-clad  spirits  of  prayer. 


SEVEN  SANDWICHMEN  ON  BROADWAY 

Jefferson  Butler  Fletcher 

Shuffling  and  shambling,  woebegone,  they  pass, 
Seven  in  single  file,  and  seven  as  one, — 
As  if  a  spectrum  of  all  woe  the  sun 
Here  cast  through  some  bewitched  prismatic  glass. 
From  their  stooped  shoulders,  back  and  fore,  hang 
crass 

High-coloured  chromos  of  a  stage  mignonne 

In  tights,  astride  a  grinning  simpleton 

Squat  on  all  fours,  and  long-eared  like  an  ass. 

"Success!    Success!"  we  read — yea,  thy  success 

We  read,  0  wanton  among  cities :  vice 

Saddled  on  folly,  woe  beneath  sevenfold: 

Woe  of  the  lust  of  life,  and  the  shameful  price 

Of  life, — woe  of  the  want,  the  weariness, — 

Of  fear,  of  hate, — of  the  thrice  false  weights  of  gold ! 


396 


IN  NEW  YORK 


William  Vaughn  Moody 

He  plays  the  deuce  with  my  writing  time, 
For  the  penny  my  sixth-floor  neighbour  throws ; 
He  finds  me  proud  of  my  pondered  rhyme, 
And  he  leaves  me — well,  God  knows 
It  takes  the  shine  from  a  tunester's  line 
When  a  little  mate  of  the  deathless  Nine 
Pipes  up  under  your  nose! 

For  listen,  there  is  his  voice  again, 

Wistful  and  clear  and  piercing  sweet. 

Where  did  the  boy  find  such  a  strain 

To  make  a  dead  heart  beat? 

And  how  in  the  name  of  care  can  he  bear 

To  jet  such  a  fountain  into  the  air 

In  this  grey  gulch  of  a  street  ? 

Tuscan  slopes  or  the  Piedmontese? 

Umbria  under  the  Apennine? 

South,  where  the  terraced  lemon-trees 

Round  rich  Sorrento  shine? 

Venice  moon  on  the  smooth  lagoon? — 

Where  have  I  heard  that  aching  tune, 

That  boyish  throat  divine? 

397 


In  New  York 


Beyord  my  roofs  and  chimney  pots 
A  rag  of  sunset  crumbles  grey; 
Below,  fierce  radiance  hangs  in  clots 
O'er  the  streams  that  never  stay. 
Shrill  and  high,  newsboys  cry 
The  worst  of  the  city's  infamy 
For  one  more  sordid  day. 

But  my  desire  has  taken  sail 
For  lands  beyond,  sof t-horizoned : 
Down  languorous  leagues  I  hold  the  trail, 
From  Marmalada,  steeply  throned 
Above  high  pastures  washed  with  light, 
Where  dolomite  by  dolomite 
Looms  sheer  and  spectral-coned. 

To  purple  vineyards  looking  south 
On  reaches  of  the  still  Tyrrhene; 
Virgilian  headlands,  and  the  mouth 
Of  Tiber,  where  that  ship  put  in 
To  take  the  dead  men  home  to  God, 
Whereof  Casella  told  the  mode 
To  the  great  Florentine. 

Up  stairways  blue  with  flowering  weed 

I  climb  to  hill-hung  Bergamo; 

All  day  I  watch  the  thunder  breed 

Golden  above  the  springs  of  Po, 

Till  the  voice  makes  sure  its  wavering  lure, 

And  by  Assisi's  portals  pure 

I  stand,  with  heart  bent  low. 


In  New  York 


399 


0  hear,  how  it  blooms  in  the  blear  dayfall, 

That  flower  of  passionate  wistful  song ! 

How  it  blows  like  a  rose  by  the  iron  wall 

Of  the  city  loud  and  strong. 

How  it  cries  ''Nay,  nay"  to  the  worldling's  way, 

To  the  heart's  clear  dream  how  it  whispers,  "Yea; 

Time  comes,  though  time  is  long." 

Beyond  my  roofs  and  chimney  piles 
Sunset  crumbles,  ragged,  dire; 
The  roaring  street  is  hung  for  miles 
With  fierce  electric  fire. 
Shrill  and  high,  newsboys  cry 
The  gross  of  the  planet's  destiny 
Through  one  more  sullen  gyre. 

Stolidly  the  town  flings  down 
Its  lust  by  day  for  its  nightly  lust; 
Who  does  his  given  stint,  'tis  known, 
Shall  have  his  mug  and  crust. — 
Too  base  of  mood,  too  harsh  of  blood, 
Too  stout  to  seize  the  grosser  good, 
Too  hungry  after  dust! 

0  hark !  how  it  blooms  in  the  falling  dark, 
That  flower  of  mystical  yearning  song; 
Sad  as  a  hermit  thrush,  as  a  lark 
Uplifted,  glad,  and  strong. 
Heart,  we  have  chosen  the  better  part ! 
Save  sacred  love  and  sacred  art 
Nothing  is  good  for  long. 


TO  FIFTH  AVENUE 

Joaquin  Miller 

0  beautiful,  long,  loved  Avenue! 

So  faithless  to  truth,  and  yet  so  true ! 

The  camp  in  battle  with  the  shouts  in  air, 

The  neighing  of  steeds  and  the  trumpet's  blare! 

Thou  iron-faced  sphynx ;  thy  stedf ast  eyes 

Encompass  all  seas.    Thy  hands  likewise 

Lay  hold  on  the  peaks.    The  land  and  the  sea 

Make  tribute  alike,  and  the  mystery 

Of  time  it  is  thine — Say,  what  art  thou 

But  the  scroll  of  the  Past  rolled  into  the  Now? 

0  throbbing  and  pulsing  proud  Avenue! 
Thou  generous  robber !    Thou  more  than  Tyre ! 
Thou  mistress  of  Pirates !    Thou  heart  of  fire ! 
Thou  heart  of  the  world's  heart,  pulsing  to 
The  bald,  white  poles.    So  old;  so  new. 

So  nude,  get  garmented  past  desire. 
Thou  tall  splendid  woman,  I  bend  to  thee; 

1  love  thy  majesty,  mystery; 

Thy  touches  of  sanctity,  touches  of  taint, 
So  grand  as  a  sinner,  so  good  as  a  saint. 

Thou  heaven  of  lights !    I  stood  at  night 
Far  down  by  a  spire  where  the  stars  shot  through 
400 


To  Fifth  Avenue 


401 


Where  commerce  throbs  strong  as  a  burly  sea  swell, 
And  searched  the  North  Star,  O  Avenue! 
If  the  road  up  to  God  were  thy  long  lane  of  light! — 
I  lifted  my  face,  looking  upward  and  far 
By  the  path  of  the  Bear,  underneath  the  North  Star 
Beyond  the  gaslights  where  the  falling  stars  spin, 
And  lo!  no  man  can  tell,  guess  he  ever  so  well, 
Where  thy  gaslights  leave  off  or  the  starlights  begin. 
36 


FIFTH  AVENUE— SPRING  AFTERNOON 


Louis  Untermeyer 

The  world's  running  over  with  color, 
With  whispers,  strange  fervors  and  April — 
There's  a  smell  in  the  air  as  if  meadows 
Were  under  our  feet. 

Spring  smiles  at  the  commonest  waysides; 
But  she  pours  out  her  heart  to  the  city, 
As  one  woman  might  to  another 

Who  meet  after  years  .  .  . 

Restless  with  color  and  perfume, 
The  streets  are  a  riot  of  blossoms. 
What  garden  could  boast  of  such  flowers — 
Not  Eden  itself. 

Primroses,  pinks  and  gardenias, 
Shame  the  grey  town  and  its  squalor — 
Windows  are  flaming  with  jonquils; 
Fires  of  gold! 

Out  of  a  florist's  some  pansies 
Peer  at  the  crowd,  like  the  faces 
Of  solemnly  mischievous  children 
Going  to  bed  .  .  . 
402 


Fifth  Avenue — Spring  Afternoon  403 

And  women — Spring's  favorite  children — 
Frail  and  phantastically  fashioned, 
Pass  like  a  race  of  immortals, 

Too  radiant  for  earth. 

The  pale  and  the  drab  are  transfigured, 
They  sing  themselves  into  the  sunshine — 
Every  girl  is  a  lyric, 

An  urge  and  a  lure. 

And,  like  a  challenge  of  trumpets, 

The  Spring  and  its  impulse  goes  through  me — 

Breezes  and  flowers  and  people 

Sing  in  my  blood  .  .  . 

Breezes  and  flowers  and  people — 
And  under  it  all,  oh  beloved, 
Out  of  the  song  and  the  sunshine, 
Rises  your  face! 


MAY  DAY 


Sara  Teasdale 

The  shining  line  of  motors, 
The  swaying  motor-bus, 

The  prancing  dancing  horses 
Are  passing  by  for  us. 

The  sunlight  on  the  steeple, 
The  toys  we  stop  to  see, 

The  smiling  passing  people 
Are  all  for  you  and  me. 

"I  love  you  and  I  love  you!" — 
"And  oh,  I  love  you,  too!" 

"All  of  the  flower  girl's  lilies 
Were  only  grown  for  you!" 

Fifth  Avenue  and  April 

And  love  and  lack  of  care — 

The  world  is  mad  with  music 
Too  beautiful  to  bear. 


404 


FIFTH  AVENUE  AT  NIGHT 


Charles  Hanson  Towne 

Like  moonstones  drooping  from  a  fair  queen's  ears 

The  pale  lights  seem — 
White  gems  that  shimmer  when  the  dark  appears 

And  the  old  dream — 

The  ancient  dream  that  comes  with  every  night 

Through  the  long  street — 
The  quiet  and  the  shadows,  and  the  light 

Tread  of  far  feet. 


405 


RONDEAU  A  LA  NEW  YORK 


Robert  Grant 

A  pot  of  gold !    0  mistress  fair, 
With  eyes  of  brown  that  pass  compare, 
Ere  I  on  bended  knee  express 
The  love  which  you  already  guess, 
I  fain  would  ask  a  small  affair. 

Hast  thou,  my  dear,  an  ample  share 
Of  this  world's  goods?    Will  thy  proud  pere 
Disgorge,  to  gild  our  blessedness, 
A  pot  of  gold? 

Some  swains  for  mental  graces  care; 
Some  fall  a  prey  to  golden  hair; 

I  am  not  blind,  I  will  confess, 

To  intellect  or  comeliness; 
Still  let  these  go  beside,  ma  chere, 
A  pot  of  gold. 


406 


ON  THE  PLAZA 


Bliss  Carman 

One  August  day  I  sat  beside 
A  cafe  window  open  wide 
To  let  the  shower-freshened  air 
Blow  in  across  the  Plaza,  where 
In  golden  pomp  against  the  dark 
Green  leafy  background  of  the  Park, 
St.  Gaudens'  hero,  gaunt  and  grim, 
Rides  on  with  victory  leading  him. 

The  wetj  black  asphalt  seemed  to  hold 

In  every  hollow  pools  of  gold, 

And  clouds  of  gold  and  pink  and  grey 

Were  piled  up  at  the  end  of  day, 

Far  down  the  cross  street,  where  one  tower 

Still  glistened  from  the  drenching  shower. 

A  weary  white-haired  man  went  by, 
Cooling  his  forehead  gratefully 
After  the  day's  great  heat.    A  girl, 
Her  thin  white  garments  in  a  swirl 
Blown  back  against  her  breasts  and  knees, 
Like  a  Winged  Victory  in  the  breeze, 
Alive  and  modern  and  superb, 
Crossed  from  the  circle  to  the  curb. 
407 


On  the  Plaza 

We  sat  there  watching  people  pass, 

Clinking  the  ice  against  the  glass, 

And  talking  idly — books  or  art, 

Or  something  equally  apart 

From  the  essential  stress  and  strife 

That  rudely  form  and  further  life, 

Glad  of  a  respite  from  the  heat, 

When  down  the  middle  of  the  street, 

Trundling  a  hurdy-gurdy,  gay 

In  spite  of  the  dull  stifling  day, 

Three  street-musicians  came.    The  man, 

With  hair  and  beard  as  black  as  Pan, 

Strolled  on  one  side  with  lordly  grace, 

While  a  young  girl  tugged  at  a  trace 

Upon  the  other.    And  between 

The  shafts  there  walked  a  laughing  queen, 

Bright  as  a  poppy,  strong  and  free. 

What  likelier  land  than  Italy 

Breeds  such  abandon?  Confident 

And  rapturous  in  mere  living  spent 

Each  moment  to  the  utmost,  there 

With  broad,  deep  chest  and  kerchiefed  hair, 

With  head  thrown  back,  bare  throat,  and  waist 

Supple,  heroic,  and  free-laced, 

Between  her  two  companions  walked 

This  splendid  woman,  chaffed  and  talked, 

Did  half  the  work,  made  all  the  cheer 

Of  that  small  company. 

No  fear 
Of  failure  in  a  soul  like  hers 
That  every  moment  throbs  and  stirs 
With  merry  ardor,  virile  hope, 
Brave  effort,  nor  in  all  its  scope 


On  the  Plaza 


409 


Has  room  for  thought  or  discontent, 
Each  day  its  own  sufficient  vent 
And  source  of  happiness. 

Without 
A  trace  of  bitterness  or  doubt 
Of  life's  true  worth,  she  strode  at  ease 
Before  those  empty  palaces 
A  simple  heiress  of  the  earth, 
And  all  its  joys  by  happy  birth, 
Beneficent  as  breeze  or  dew, 
As  fresh  as  though  the  world  were  new 
And  toil  and  grief  were  not.    How  rare 
A  personality  was  there! 


MORNING  IN  CENTRAL  PARK 


James  Oppenheim 

When  the  morning  sun 

Spills  his  red  lights  among  the  naked  trees 

And  one  by  one 

The  hills  awaken — and  like  wind-played  seas 

Give  back  the  music  of  the  breeze, 

When  among  film  and  tracery  of  boughs 

Stripped  by  the  winter's  teeth, 

Green  glow  the  sun-filled  pines — 0  man,  unhouse 

Your  head  of  human  walls — get  from  beneath 

Shut  ceilings — let  the  skies  take  off  the  roof 

Of  your  small  room — and  into  the  Park  at  seven 

Go  with  tremendous  stride — 

Earth  there  is  open  wide 

To  the  sun  and  the  wind  and  the  amplitude  of  heaven ! 

That  Child,  the  World,  from  out  the  infinite  night 
Draws  through  the  dark 
Into  the  light — 

And  all  the  sacred  mystery  of  Birth 
Hovers  on  the  Earth — 
Even  in  the  pale  of  the  man-gardened  Park 
The  mystery  of  Morn,  the  beauty  and  the  splendor 
Through  the  groves  are  slipping,  from  the  boughs  are 
dripping, 

410 


Morning  in  Central  Park  411 


A  miracle  without  us, 

That  yet  the  heart's  core  owns! — 

Chant  there  the  pebble-tripped  waters  shut  in  stones, 

Sparrows  are  over  the  turf  chirping  and  tripping, 

And  Man's  World  sings  in  a  swinging  circle  about  us ! 

O  film  of  ice  skimming  the  crystal  pool ! 

See  how  it  flashes  in  the  wintry  sun ! 

And  hear  the  water  splash ! — how  clean !  how  cool ! 

And  behold  how  visible,  yea,  on  every  one, 

The  silences  of  enormous  centuries, 

Brood  on  the  rocks  and  the  unstirring  trees ! 


CENTRAL  PARK 
John  Myers  O'Hara 

The  little  lake,  sequestered  from  the  wind, 
Is  white  with  swans  that  on  its  bosom  sleep ; 
A  sunken  mirror  where  the  skies  may  keep 

The  azure  of  their  summer  dream  enshrined ; 

Unsullied  by  the  rim  of  roofs  behind 
Secluding  oaks  that  cluster  on  the  steep, 
Or  ripple  from  the  shore  whose  frondage  deep 

Is  cool  with  shadow  and  with  fragrance  kind. 

The  tyrant  city  towers  above  the  trees, 
Nor  heeds  the  Attic  idyl  in  its  heart ; 
The  grind  of  wheels  and  noise  of  feet  depart, 

The  woods  are  filled  with  fabled  deities; 
A  dream  recalls  them  to  their  sylvan  sway, 
And  Mammon  yields  Arcadia  a  day. 


412 


THE  MAY  PARTY 


James  Oppenheim 


O  million-singing  comes  the  May 

And  whose  dumb  heart  but  wakes  and  thrills 
Now,  as  of  old,  the  break-of-day 

Sings  through  the  heart  as  through  the  hills — 
New  spirit  and  new  day  are  born — 

Yea,  in  our  souls  great  suns  arise 
With  flame  more  glorious  than  the  morn 

Lit  with  sun-centred  skies! 


O  we  have  watched  the  blossoms  slip 

Through  hills  of  sunniest  silent  green, 
And  when  at  morn  the  bluebirds  drip 

Dew  on  wet  logs,  our  eyes  have  seen — 
Yea,  marked  the  unmowed  meadow  tremble 

Through  a  million  blades  of  grass  new-born — 
Yea,  heard  the  birds  of  song  assemble 

The  beauty  of  the  morn ! 


But  there  is  one  thing  I  have  seen 
That  shall  be  held  within  the  heart, 

When  all  that  deepens  into  green 

Or  blooms  in  bright  blue  shall  depart — 
4i3 


The  May  Party 


It  was  a  hill  that  blossomed  rich 
With  buds  of  an  all-lovelier  hue 

Than  the  wild  spring-things  that  bewitch 
Each  year  our  souls  anew! 

Lo,  in  the  park,  and  up  the  lawn, 

And  laughing  in  the  leafiness, 
And  fresh  with  all  the  fragrant  dawn, 

And  dancing  in  gay  gala  dress, 
Our  city  children  loosed  to  skies, 

A  thousand  little  souls  laid  bare 
To  all  the  gales  of  Paradise 

That  wandered  through  their  hair. 

O  loveliness  more  absolute 

Than  bird  or  bough  or  beast  or  bud, 

0  pure  sweet  splendors  that  transmute 
May's  unsoul'd  marvellous  full  flood 

Into  a  something  lit  with  God ! 

0  gazing  where  they  danced  and  ran 

1  knew  then  why  earth's  blossoming  sod 
Had  given  birth  to  man ! 


THE  PINES,  SIXTY-SEVENTH  STREET 


Central  Park — Looking  Southward 
Harvey  Maitland  Watts 

Though  winds  are  bleak  this  greening  tells  of  May, 
Lit  by  the  winter  sunset's  trailing  gleam, 

And  the  susurrus  speaks  of  far-a-way, 

Some  mountain  scarp,  some  hurrying  woodland 
stream — 

Yet  roofed  sierras  crowd  on  every  side, 
And  ceaseless  flows  this  restless  human  tide. 


4i5 


CENTRAL  PARK  AT  DUSK 
Sara  Teasdale 

Buildings  above  the  leafless  trees 
Loom  high  as  castles  in  a  dream, 

While  one  by  one  the  lamps  come  out 
To  thread  the  twilight  with  a  gleam. 

There  is  no  sign  of  leaf  or  bud, 
A  hush  is  over  everything — 

Silent  as  women  wait  for  love, 
The  world  is  waiting  for  the  spring, 


416 


TWILIGHT  BY  THE  MALL 


Seldon  L.  Whitcomb 

The  moonlight  creeps  across  yon  gilded  roof, 
And  northward  far  of  massive  block  on  block 
The  spire  of  Grace  is  dim ;  the  stubborn  rock 
Echoes  beneath  the  roar  of  wheel  and  hoof 
Along  Broadway — a  human  warp  whose  woof 

Is  spun  by  hurrying  crowds  that  bridgeward 
flock; 

Some  with  glad  faces,  some  who  seem  to  mock, 
Some  sad,  and  some  who  coldly  hold  aloof. 

Yet  here  is  calm  for  which  the  self  has  sought ! 
When  crushing  grief  and  stormy  rapture  meet 
And  mingle  here,  as  night  subdues  the  day, 
Be  silent,  till  thy  anxious  soul  has  caught 
The  harmony  wherein  the  incomplete, 
Defiant,  private  note  must  pass  away. 


27 


417 


SPRING  NIGHT 


Sara  Teasdale 

The  park  is  filled  with  night  and  fog, 
The  veils  are  drawn  about  the  world, 

The  drowsy  lights  along  the  paths 
Are  dim  and  pearled. 

Gold  and  gleaming  the  empty  streets, 
Gold  and  gleaming  the  misty  lake, 

The  mirrored  lights  like  sunken  swords, 
Glimmer  and  shake. 

Oh,  is  it  not  enough  to  be 

Here  with  this  beauty  over  me? 

My  throat  should  ache  with  praise,  and  I 

Should  kneel  in  joy  beneath  the  sky. 

Oh,  beauty  are  you  not  enough? 

Why  am  I  crying  after  love 

With  youth,  a  singing  voice  and  eyes 

To  take  earth's  wonder  with  surprise? 

Why  have  I  put  off  my  pride, 

Why  am  I  unsatisfied, 

I  for  whom  the  pensive  night 

Binds  her  cloudy  hair  with  light, 

I  for  whom  all  beauty  burns 

Like  incense  in  a  million  urns? 

Oh,  beauty,  are  you  not  enough? 

Why  am  I  crying  after  love? 

418 


WHISTLES  AT  NIGHT 


John  Hall  Wheelock 

At  night  in  the  city  when  the  far-off  whistles  blow 
I  think  of  you,  far-off  in  the  dark  and  the  night, 
And  the  old  days  come  back  of  your  young  delight 

So  long  ago. 

I  remember  the  evening  we  parted  forever  at  last, 
The  long,  dim  aisles  of  trees  in  the  lamp-lit  Park, 
The  windy  houses  that  huddled,  chilly  and  dark, 

On  the  twilit  Vast. 

And  even  the  sound  of  the  newsboy's  voice  in  the 
street 

And  a  rattling  car,  in  that  moment  of  exquisite 
pain, 

Burned  themselves  like  odors  into  my  brain, 
Sharp  and  yet  sweet. 

Because  we  knew  it  must  be  forever  and  aye, 

We  would  laugh,  we  said,  to  make  it  a  little  thing ; 
I  remember  your  voice,  how  your  laugh  had  a  curious 
ring 

Not  wholly  gay. 

419 


420 


Whistles  at  Night 


The  old  dear  way  of  moving  your  shoulders  had — 
And  when  you  had  turned  away  for  a  little  while, 
How  you  turned  back  with  a  last,  brave  ghost  of  a 
smile, — 

But  not  glad,  not  glad! 

At  night  in  the  city  when  the  far-off  whistles  blow 
I  think  of  you,  far-off  in  the  dark  and  the  night; 
The  arc-lamp  out  in  the  street  flares  dizzy  and 

white, 

And  the  dawn  comes  slow. 


THE  FLAT-HUNTER'S  WAY 


Franklin  P.  Adams 

We  don't  get  any  too  much  light; 

It's  pretty  noisy,  too,  at  that; 
The  folks  next  door  stay  up  all  night ; 

There's  but  one  closet  in  the  flat ; 
The  rent  we  pay  is  far  from  low; 

Our  flat  is  small  and  in  the  rear; 
But  we  have  looked  around,  and  so, 

We  think  we'll  stay  another  year. 

Our  dining-room  is  pretty  dark; 

Our  kitchen's  hot  and  very  small ; 
The  "view"  we  get  of  Central  Park 

We  really  do  not  get  at  all. 
The  ceiling  cracks  and  crumbles  down 

Upon  me  while  I'm  working  here — 
But,  after  combing  all  the  town, 
•  We  think  we'll  stay  another  year. 

We  are  not  "handy"  to  the  sub; 

Our  hall-boy  service  is  a  joke; 
Our  janitor's  a  foreign  dub 

Who  never  does  a  thing  but  smoke: 
Our  landlord  says  he  will  not  cut 

A  cent  from  rent  already  dear; 
And  so  we  sought  for  better — but 

We  think  we'll  stay  another  year. 


421 


THE  METROPOLITAN  MUSEUM  OF  ART 


Lloyd  Mifflin 

Immurmurous  Hall,  with  aisles  of  grateful  shade, 
Hushed  refuge  from  the  tumult  of  the  street, 
Be  thou  my  Fane,  with  sculptured  gods  replete, 

Mine  altar  dim — my  sanctuary  glade ! 

With  genius  rare  on  every  side  displayed, 

Dearer  thou  art  than  dreams  of  waving  wheat 
In  dales  of  vanished  Youth ! — O  rich  retreat 

Throbbing  with  garnered  shapes  that  never  fade! 

The  deathless  dead  are  round  me.    In  these  rooms 
Glow  the  achieved  summits  of  mankind : 

The  marbles  breathe :  the  color  flames  and  glooms — 
Immortal  Beauty  by  the  soul  divined; 

Inviolate  here,  the  pure  Ideal  blooms, 

The  flower  of  man's  creative,  God-like  mind ! 


422 


THE  CITY 


Edith  M.  Thomas 

Not  mine  with  infancy's  film'd  eyes 

To  greet  first  light  from  past  thy  towers, 

That  soar  and  dream  in  stainless  skies, 
Nor  heard  I  first  thy  chime  told  hours : 

Far,  far  from  here  my  childhood's  morn — 

But  here  was  I  reborn. 

Not  mine  to  taste  the  keen,  salt  spray, 
That  tingling  smites  thy  downward  face — 

That  stirs  the  blood,  that  breaks  the  fray 
Of  life,  in  street  and  marketplace, 

Where,  wearied,  none  be  soon  outworn ! 

But  here  was  I  reborn. 

Here  where  'twas  given  to  indraw 

The  air  of  larger  freedom,  yet 
To  know  the  closer  bond  of  law, 

Here  where  Fate's  lusty  blows  are  met, 
But  not  the  pinprick  and  the  thorn — 
Here  where  I  was  reborn! 

In  million  beating  hearts  (thine  own), 
A  one  pulsed  world-heart  first  I  felt; 
423 


The  City 


Then,  down  upon  thy  paving  stone, 

In  thankfulness,  I  could  have  knelt, 
At  one  with  all — of  selfhood  shorn — 
Here  where  I  was  reborn ! 

Dear  unto  each  his  native  earth, 
Renascent  life  thou  gavest  me, 

0  city  of  my  glad  rebirth ! 

I  am  thy  native;  shut  from  thee 
What  but  an  exile  most  forlorn, 

1  who  was  here  reborn ! 

Let  who  will  count  thee  but  as  part 
Of  this  wide  land — I,  in  my  soul 

(More  in  the  gravure  on  my  heart) 
Proclaim  thee  greater  than  the  whole! 

I  am  thy  patriot.    Do  not  scorn 

Thy  singer  here  reborn. 


ON  A  SUBWAY  EXPRESS 


Chester  Firkins 

I,  who  have  lost  the  stars,  the  sod, 
For  chilling  pave  and  cheerless  light, 

Have  made  my  meeting-place  with  God 
A  new  and  nether  Night — 

Have  found  a  fane  where  thunder  fills 
Loud  caverns,  tremulous; — and  these 

Atone  me  for  my  reverend  hills 
And  moonlit  silences. 

A  figment  in  the  crowded  dark, 
Where  men  sit  muted  by  the  roar, 

I  ride  upon  the  whirring  Spark 
Beneath  the  city's  floor. 

In  this  dim  firmament,  the  stars 
Whirl  by  in  blazing  files  and  tiers; 

Kin  meteors  graze  our  flying  bars, 
Amid  the  spinning  spheres. 

Speed !  speed !  until  the  quivering  rails 
Flash  silver  where  the  head-light  gleams, 

As  when  on  lake  the  Moon  impales 
The  waves  upon  its  beams. 

425 


On  a  Subway  Express 

Life  throbs  about  me,  yet  I  stand 
Out  gazing  on  majestic  Power; 

Death  rides  with  me,  on  either  hand, 
In  my  communion  hour. 

You  that  'neath  country  skies  can  pray, 
Scoff  not  at  me — the  city  clod; — 

My  only  respite  of  the  Day 
Is  this  wild  ride — with  God. 


SUBWAY  TRACK- WALKERS 


Dana  Burnet 

Who  are  ye  hopeless  who  go  with  dull  faces, 
Treading  the  terrible  floorways  of  night? 

Oft  have  I  seen  ye  flick  by  in  the  shadow, 
Framed  from  the  dark  by  a  flutter  of  light. 

Do  ye  gaze  up  at  the  hurtling  windows, 

Streaking  your  dusk-world  with  sudden  bright 
lanes? 

Do  ye  dream  dreams  of  the  lights  and  the  faces  ? 
Do  ye  think  thoughts  of  the  eyes  at  the  panes? 

Far  is  your  path  through  the  burrows  of  darkness ! 

Fearful  the  death  if  ye  falter  or  blunder! 
Once  I  saw  one  of  you  caught  in  the  whirlwind, 

Hurled  to  his  fathers  with  steel  and  great  thunder 

What  is  your  vision,  and  where  is  your  meaning? 

Do  ye  walk  only  for  Saturday's  pay? 
Or  are  ye  sent  for  a  desperate  service 

That  I  may  ride  to  my  true  love  to-day? 


427 


ROSES  IN  THE  SUBWAY 


Dana  Burnet 

A  wan-cheeked  girl  with  faded  eyes 

Came  stumbling  down  the  crowded  car. 

Clutching  her  burden  to  her  breast 
As  though  she  held  a  star. 

Roses,  I  swear  it !    Red  and  sweet 

And  struggling  from  her  pinched  white  hands, 
Roses  .  .  .  like  captured  hostages 

From  far  and  fairy  lands ! 

The  thunder  of  the  rushing  train 

Was  like  a  hush  .  .  .    The  flower  scent 

Breathed  faintly  on  the  stale,  whirled  air 
Like  some  dim  sacrament — 

I  saw  a  garden  stretching  out 

And  morning  on  it  like  a  crown — 
And  o'er  a  bed  of  crimson  bloom 

My  mother  .  .  .  stooping  down. 


428 


N.  Y. 


Ezra  Pound 

My  City,  my  beloved,  my  white! 
Ah,  slender, 

Listen !    Listen  to  me,  and  I  will  breathe  into  thee  a 
soul. 

Delicately  upon  the  reed,  attend  me 

Now  do  I  know  that  I  am  mad, 

For  here  are  a  million  people  surly  with  traffic; 

This  is  no  maid. 

Neither  could  I  play  upon  any  reed  if  I  had  one. 

My  city,  my  beloved, 

Thou  art  a  maid  with  no  breasts, 

Thou  art  slender  as  a  silver  reed. 

Listen  to  me,  attend  me ! 

And  I  will  breathe  into  thee  a  soul. 

And  thou  shalt  live  for  ever. 


429 


OF  CITY  FLOWERS 


On  reading  certain  poems  in  praise  of  New  York 

Shaemus  O'Sheel 

My  city !    How  the  younger  poets  mock 

With  present  praise  thine  unrevealed  soul ! 

Surely  with  scorn  thou  hear'st  their  raptures  roll, 
Nor  will  to  their  small  minds  thy  mind  unlock. 
Not  with  such  clamoring  casuists  can  I  flock; 

Black  witch  who  ere  my  birth  my  future  stole, 

With  fury  that  I  care  not  to  control 
I  hate  thee  and  the  children  of  thy  stock ! 

I  hate  thee  and  I  cry  it  to  the  world ! 
And  in  return  thy  uncouth  savage  love, 
O  lewd  amorphous  mystery,  I  feel ! 
For  when  at  last  thy  loftiest  towers  are  hurled 
Hell-ward,  of  all  who  mourn  thy  ruins  above, 
My  grief  alone,  thou  knowest,  will  be  real. 


430 


NEW  YORK  DAYS 


William  Ellery  Leonard 

Tis  something  for  a  poet's  lip — 
Our  memorable  comradeship. 

The  Empire  City  of  the  isle 
Threw  down  on  us  her  awful  smile. 
"My  fate  be  on  you, "  said  the  Voice; 
"Aspire,  and  if  you  can,  rejoice  ..." 

We  entered,  through  a  portico, 
By  ample  steps  that  flanged  below, 
A  dome  supreme  and  luminous, 
But  housing  statues  not  for  us; 
And  sullen  made  o'er  marble  tile 
Dumb  exit  through  the  brazen  stile: 
The  college  of  the  liberal  arts 
Was  not  the  college  of  our  hearts — 
We  had  some  other  ends  to  win  .  .  . 

We  saw  the  iron  ships  come  in 
From  Brooklyn  Bridge,  the  civic  towers 
That  loomed  too  large  for  earth  of  ours, 
The  pits  between,  the  smoky  pall, 
The  stony  shadows  vertical 
Aslant  up  many  a  windowed  wall  .  .  . 
43i 


432 


New  York  Days 


I've  read  that  in  the  Middle  Age, 
When  Dante  made  his  pilgrimage, 
Each  Tuscan  baron,  bound  to  feud, 
Who  housed  in  city  walls  imbued 
With  blood  of  Ghibelline  and  Guelf, 
Built  a  high  watch-tower  for  himself, 
And  travellers  over  Alps  looked  down 
On  many  a  grim  imperial  town 
That  rose  in  rugged  silhouette 
Of  parapet  by  parapet 
Without  a  spire,  a  tree,  a  home — 
'Twas  thus  with  Pisa,  Florence,  Rome. 
But  here  it  seemed  some  giant  broods 
Had  raised  the  bulwarks  of  their  feuds 
And  mastered  Titan  altitudes ! 

We  watched  on  slopes  of  Morningside 
Broad  Hudson  wrestling  with  the  tide, 
Or  from  the  granite  balustrades 
The  sunset  o'er  the  Palisades, 
Where  glowed  the  Cosmos  in  the  West, 
Like  lightning  flashes  made  to  rest 
And  lie  an  hour  manifest  .  .  . 

We  passed  in  moonlight  down  the  malls 
Beneath  the  dusky  citadels; 
We  wound  from  curve  to  curve  in  cars 
On  lofty  girders  under  stars ; 
We  drank  in  music-halls,  aflame 
With  lantern  green  and  scarlet  dame; 
And  held,  where  passion  most  was  rife, 
Our  fevered  talk  of  human  life  .  .  . 


New  York  Days 


433 


And  through  the  snow,  the  wind,  the  gloom, 

We  journeyed  to  each  other's  room, 

In  those  lamp-lit  aerial  crypts, 

Piled  with  our  books  and  manuscripts — 

So  far  above  the  flash  and  roar 

We  seemed  encaved  forevermore 

Upon  some  cliff  or  mountain  shore; 

We  read  in  bardic  ecstasies 

Catullus  or  Simonides, 

Or  chanted  verses  of  our  own 

In  slow  sonorous  monotone, 

That  sometimes  clove  so  true  and  free, 

To  us  'twas  immortality; 

We  shared  the  agony  of  tears 

Pierced  by  the  ignominious  years, 

And  times  there  were  when  we  were  three, 

But  late  it  grows  and  where  is  he? 

And  I  long  since  was  inland  driven 
To  climb  the  hills  of  God  as  given, 
While  you  again  are  by  those  seas 
With  more  of  vision,  power,  peace. 
We  overcame.    But  'twas  the  press 
Of  no  ignoble  restlessness — 
Outside  the  law  yet  not  outside, 
By  austere  issues  justified, 
And  justified,  were  all  else  vain, 
By  brotherhood  of  song  and  pain. 
28 


POE'S  COTTAGE  AT  FORDHAM 


Walter  Malone 

Here  stands  the  little  antiquated  house, 
A  few  old-fashioned  flowers  at  the  door; 

The  dead  past  leaves  it,  quiet  as  a  mouse, 
Though  just  beyond  a  giant  city  roar. 

See  here  the  curious  porch,  the  attic  there, 

The  quaint  square  window  with  its  awkward  blind, 

The  weather-beaten  wall,  so  blank  and  bare, 
And  shadowed  by  an  apple  tree  behind. 

Within  this  room  Virginia  lay  when  ill, 

A  black  cat  nestling  there  to  warm  her  feet; 

And  so  she  languished,  growing  paler  still, 
And  shivering  as  the  winds  of  Winter  beat. 

And  here  her  mother  through  the  long,  long  night 
Watched  ever  by  the  poor  consumptive's  side. 

Here  by  the  smoky  lamp's  low  flickering  light 
They  looked  upon  Virginia  when  she  died. 

And  here  it  was  they  wrapped  her  in  her  shroud, 
And  hence  they  took  her  through  the  falling  snow. 

So  on  this  old  house  closed  at  last  the  cloud 
That  haunts  it  still  with  griefs  of  long  ago. 
434 


Poe's  Cottage  at  Fordham 


435 


And  here  the  poet's  life  grew  darker  still 
As  dream  by  dream  had  vanished  into  air; 

Here  day  by  day  grew  weaker  yet  his  will, 
As  golden  hopes  were  rusted  in  despair. 

But  here  were  born  those  strains  that  cannot  die, 
Romances  that  shall  rule  the  human  heart. 

Here  Fame,  whose  summer  hears  no  autumn  sigh, 
Shall  rear  immortal  marbles  to  his  art. 


Here  Ligeia  haunts  us  with  enchanting  eyes, 
We  catch  the  rustle  of  Morella's  gown; 

Here  Usher  treads,  and  William  Wilson  dies, 
And  Israfel  sings  Poe's  supreme  renown. 


THE  FLEET 


Chester  Firkins 

Gaunt  rocks  of  death  that  darkly  lay, 
Unstirred  by  tide  or  river's  sway, 
Against  the  glory  of  the  day 

The  ships  of  war  were  still. 
Kindred  in  color  to  the  wave, 
Kindred  in  menace  to  the  grave, 
They  floated,  terrible  and  brave, 

Beneath  the  peopled  hill. 

Immovable  as  forted  isles — 

Stern  guns  abristle  from  their  piles — 

The  anchored  squadron  marked  the  miles 

From  bay  to  city's  rim. 
We  gazed  upon  the  steely  chain — 
The  shackles  of  the  mighty  main — 
Built,  by  our  will,  for  human  pain, 

And  felt  the  grandeur  grim. 

But  sudden  fell  the  veil  of  night, 
And  sudden  to  the  wondering  sight, 
From  far-thronged  wave,  and  wall  and  height, 
We  saw  the  splendor  glow. 

436 


The  Fleet 


Phantasmal  as  a  magic  dream, 
The  bosom  of  the  hidden  stream 
Burst,  beautiful,  into  the  gleam 
Of  lights,  long  filed  and  low. 

The  floating  citadels  of  death. 
As  by  some  mystic  shibboleth, 
Were  fashioned,  in  the  space  of  breath, 

Into  a  fairy  scene. 
The  things  that  men  had  made  to  kill 
Stood  glorified  and  sweet  and  still, 
While  music  reached  the  shoreward  hill 

From  out  the  dream-demesne. 

But  yet  again  the  dawn  came,  cold. 
The  deep  guns,  by  their  thunder,  told 
Their  power,  where  the  echoes  rolled 

Against  the  rocky  shore. 
And  out  upon  the  ocean  grey, 
Trim,  terrible,  in  close  array, 
The  dreamful,  deathful  ships  away 

Went  forth  for  Peace,  or  War. 


MANHATTAN 


Charles  Hanson  Towne 

When,  sick  of  all  the  sorrow  and  distress 
That  flourished  in  the  City  like  foul  weeds, 
I  sought  blue  rivers  and  green,  opulent  meads, 

And  leagues  of  unregarded  loneliness 

Whereon  no  foot  of  man  had  seemed  to  press, 
I  did  not  know  how  great  had  been  my  needs, 
How  wise  the  woodland's  gospels  and  her  creeds, 

How  good  her  faith  to  one  long  comfortless. 

But  in  the  silence  came  a  Voice  to  me; 
In  every  wind  it  murmured,  and  I  knew 

It  would  not  cease,  though  far  my  heart  might 
roam. 

It  called  me  in  the  sunrise  and  the  dew, 
At  noon  and  twilight,  sadly,  hungrily, 

The  jealous  City,  whispering  always — "Home!" 


438 


VILLANELLE  OF  CITY  AND  COUNTRY 


Zoe  Akins 

Beneath  the  arches  of  the  leaves  I  lie, 

And  watch  the  Lovers  wander — Song  and  Spring — 
But  oh,  the  towers  set  in  Gotham's  sky! 

A  great  triangle  shaft  uplifts  on  high 

Its  columned  shrine  wherein  the  presses  sing; 
Beneath  the  arches  of  the  leaves  I  lie. 

With  flocks  of  clouds  the  Shepherd-wind  goes  by, 
White  poppies  'mid  the  waving  grasses  swing — 
But  oh,  the  towers  set  in  Gotham's  sky ! 

As  to  a  fairy  castle  we  draw  nigh 

When  home  the  ferries  bear  us,  marvelling; 
Beneath  the  arches  of  the  leaves  I  lie. 

Across  the  empty  fields  the  trumpets  die 

That  meadow  larks  unto  the  morning  fling — 
But  oh,  the  towers  set  in  Gotham's  sky! 

Far  off  I  hear  the  city's  aching  cry, 

Where  Life  and  Death  are  Lovers,  wandering; 
Beneath  the  arches  of  the  leaves  I  lie, 
But  oh,  the  towers  set  in  Gotham's  sky ! 


439 


THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND 


In  absence,  by  one  who  returns  no  more 

Edith  M.  Thomas 

Art  thou  there,  between  thy  rivers, 
With  thy  towered  sea  front  bold — 

There,  between  the  dawn  and  sunset, 
Lit  with  amethyst  or  gold  ? 

Art  thou  there,  enchanted  island 
I  shall  never  more  behold  ? 

Dost  thou  loom,  in  mystic  beauty, 
Through  the  hazy,  summer  light, 

Like  the  vision,  seen  in  Patmos, 
Of  the  city  in  the  height? 

Often  times,  a  grey  armada, 

Anchored  midst  thy  waters  bright? 

Art  thou  filled  with  joyous  tumults 
That  from  far  thy  travellers  hail? 

Do  thy  clangors  grow  a  music — 
Throbbing  pave  and  vibrant  rail  ? 

Still  thy  masted  lights  keep  vigil, 
While  thy  pleasures  never  fail  ? 
440 


The  Enchanted  Island 

Art  thou  there,  my  haven  city, 
Open  armed  to  each  oppressed? 

Art  thou  there,  with  all  thy  strangers 
Thou  hast  taken  to  thy  breast — 

Latin,  Slav,  and  tawny  alien 
From  an  East  beyond  the  West? 

Art  thou  there,  midst  all  abundance, 
From  the  wide  world's  gardens  shed — 

Thou,  with  palace  dwellers — toilers — 
Strugglers  earning  scanty  bread? 

Palace  dwellers,  toilers,  beggars, 
But  thy  streets  they  still  may  tread ! 

Oh,  the  echoes  of  thy  pavements 
Where  my  feet  no  more  shall  be! 

Art  thou  there,  enchanted  island — 
Thou  mine  eyes  no  more  shall  see? 

Yet  I  know,  past  peradventure, 
Loosed,  my  soul  shall  wing  to  thee! 


NEW  YORK 

Florence  Wilkinson  Evans 

Into  the  violet  vastness  of  shoreless  and  moaning 
twilight 

The  infinite  hulk  of  the  ship  of  my  city  pushes  her 
course, 

Paying  out  with  the  rush  of  her  spindle  a  log  un- 
returning, 

Crying  of  births  and  hushes  of  deaths  recording  the 
knots  of  her  voyage. 

On  her  decks  by  the  chart-house  they  pace,  the  gal- 
lant leisurely  passengers, 

Some  sob  deep  down  in  her  hold,  the  huddled  fright- 
ened stowaways, 

But  the  infinite  ship  of  my  city  steadily  surges  on- 
ward; 

Saluting  her  neighbours  (audacious  or  timid)  the 
lights  of  her  starboard  and  larboard. 

Ship  of  my  city,  ship  of  my  city,  burning  clear  at  the 

head  of  thy  foremast, 
Who  is  thy  captain,  what  is  thy  message,  where  is  the 

port  that  thou  makest? 
Into  the  violet  vastness  of  shoreless  and  moaning 

twilight 

The  infinite  hulk  of  the  ship  of  my  city  pushes  her 
course  unreturning. 

442 


GOLDEN  HILL. 


Where,  in  1770,  Was  Shed  the  First  Blood  of  the  Revolution 

Hamilton  Fish  Armstrong. 

East  of  the  rumble  of  Broadway, 
Among  those  streets  where  yesterday 
Is  clean  forgotten  in  the  fray 

Of  money  and  of  trade, 
East  from  the  ivy-shrouded  walls 
Of  gentlemanly  old  St.  Paul's, 

My  quiet  way  I  made. 

And  here,  where  Nassau  touches  Ann, 
Through  all  the  noisy  caravan 

Of  this  and  other  years, 
It  seems  from  far  there  tingling  comes 
The  march  of  men — the  roll  of  drums — 

A  bugle  in  my  ears. 

A  century  and  a  half  ago 

(Where  now  the  cursing  draymen  go), 

Its  call  thrilled  out  "Beware!" 
Then  Liberty  was  something  new — 
King  George  had  not  yet  brewed  his  brew 

Nor  redcoats  drunk  their  share. 
443 


Golden  Hill 


Again  that  bugle-note  is  thrilling, 

Though  ears  be  deaf  and  hearts  unwilling — 

It  sings  as  loudly  still 
As  when  they  melted  leaden  kings 
Into  all  sorts  of  useful  things 

On  top  of  Golden  Hill. 


THE  STATUE  OF  LIBERTY 


New  York  Harbour,  A.D.  2900 

Arthur  Upson 

Here  once,  the  records  show,  a  land  whose  pride 
Abode  in  Freedom's  watchword !    And  once  here 
The  port  of  traffic  for  a  hemisphere, 

With  great  gold-piling  cities  at  her  side ! 

Tradition  says,  superbly  once  did  bide 

Their  sculptured  goddess  on  an  island  near, 
With  hospitable  smile  and  torch  kept  clear 

For  all  wide  hordes  that  sought  her  o'er  the  tide. 

'Twas  centuries  ago.    But  this  is  true: 

Late  the  fond  tyrant  who  misrules  our  land, 
Bidding  his  serfs  dig  deep  in  marshes  old, 

Trembled,  not  knowing  wherefore,  as  they  drew 
From  out  this  swampy  bed  of  ancient  mould 
A  shattered  torch  held  in  a  mighty  hand. 


445 


MANNAHATTA 


Walt  Whitman 

I  was  asking  for  something  specific  and  perfect  for  my 
city, 

Whereupon  lo !  upsprang  the  aboriginal  name. 

Now  I  see  what  there  is  in  a  name,  a  word,  liquid, 
sane,  unruly,  musical,  self-sufficient, 

I  see  that  the  word  of  my  city  is  that  word  from  of 
old, 

Because  I  see  that  word  nested  in  nests  of  water-bays, 
superb, 

Rich,  hemm'd  thick  all  around  with  sailships  and 
steamships,  an  island  sixteen  miles  long,  solid- 
founded, 

Numberless  crowded  streets,  high  growths  of  iron, 
slender,  strong,  light,  splendidly  uprising  toward 
clear  skies, 

Tides  swift  and  ample,  well-loved  by  me,  toward 
sundown, 

The  flowing  sea-currents,  the  little  islands,  larger 
adjoining  islands,  the  heights,  the  villas, 

The  countless  masts,  the  white  shore-steamers,  the 
lighters,  the  ferry-boats,  the  black  sea-steamers 
well-model'd, 

446 


Dust  Storm  in  Broadway — Sudden  Disappearance 
of  Half  your  Friend  and  all  your  Eyesight 

From  Harper's  Weekly,  March,  1861 


Mannahatta 


447 


The  down-town  streets,  the  jobbers'  houses  of  busi- 
ness, the  houses  of  business  of  the  ship-merchants 
and  money-brokers,  the  river-streets, 

Immigrants  arriving,  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  in  a 
week, 

The  carts  hauling  goods,  the  manly  race  of  drivers  of 

horses,  the  brown-faced  sailors, 
The  summer  air,  the  bright  sun  shining,  and  the  sailing 

clouds  aloft, 

The  winter  snows,  the  sleigh-bells,  the  broken  ice  in  the 
river,  passing  along  up  or  down  with  the  flood- 
tide  or  ebb-tide, 

The  mechanics  of  the  city,  the  masters,  well-form'd, 
beautiful-faced,  looking  you  straight  in  the  eyes, 

Trottoirs  throng'd,  vehicles,  Broadway,  the  women, 
the  shops  and  shows, 

A  million  people — manners  free  and  superb — open 
voices — hospitality — the  most  courageous  and 
friendly  young  men, 

City  of  hurried  and  sparkling  waters!  city  of  spires 
and  masts! 

City  nested  in  bays !  my  city ! 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Adams,  Franklin  P.,  205,  287, 
421 

Akins,  Z6e,  439 
Aldrich,    Margaret  Chanler, 
243 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  340 
Anonymous,  64,  95,  147,  194, 
324 

Armstrong,    Hamilton  Fish, 

333,  392,  443 
Baker,  George  A.,  201 
Ballantine,  W.  G.,  326 
Beach,  L.,  90 
Benjamin,  Park,  233 
Be>anger,  Pierre  Jean  de,  124 
Bigelow,  Jacob,  165 
Branch,  Anna  Hemstead,  385 
Bridges,  Robert,  365 
Brownell,  H.  H.,  183 
Bryant,  William  Cullen,  157, 

160 

Bunner,  H.  C.,  65,  138,  218, 
308 

Burnet,  Dana,  321,  427,  428 
Butler,  William  Allen,  358 
Carman,  Bliss,  407 
Carryll,  Guy  Wetmore,  221 
Cawein,  Madison,  296 
Coates,  Florence  Earle,  301 
Coffin,  Robert  Stevenson,  125, 
127 

Cone,  Helen  Gray,  87 
Coxe,  Arthur  Cleveland,  355 
Cromwell,  Ruth  N.,  185 
Doane,   George  Washington, 
169 

Dobson,  Austin,  11 
Drake,  Joseph  Rodman,  106, 
117 


Drake  and  Halleck,  1 1 1 ,  117 
Dunshee,  Henry  Webb,  26 
Eaton,  Thomas,  98 
Eaton,  Walter  Prichard,  334 
Evans,    Florence  Wilkinson, 

283,  294,  383,  442 
Fawcett,  Edgar,  209 
Finch,  Francis  Miles,  47 
Firkins,    Chester,    265,  291, 

425,  436 
Fletcher,  Jefferson  Butler,  396 
Freneau,  Philip,  55,  69,  70, 

76,  83,  102 
.  Gallienne,  Richard  Le,  259 
Gilder,  Richard  Watson,  207, 

212,  236,  330,  380 
Grant,  Robert,  406 
Guiterman,  Arthur,  347 
Halleck,  Fitz-Greene,  109,  119, 

121 

O'Hara,  John  Myers,  217,  282, 

320,  366?  412 
Hooker,  Brian,  362,  381 
Hopper,  Edward,  13 
Hovey,  Richard,  384 
Huntington,  Jedediah,  140 
Jones,  Thomas  S.,  Jr.,  275 
deKay,  Charles,  187,  197 
Lancaster,  A.  E.,  226 
Lathrop,  George  Parsons,  375 
Lazarus,  Emma,  239 
Leonard,  William  Ellery,  234, 

431 

Lindsay,  Vachel,  394 
McCoy,  Samuel,  328,  344 
McNeal-Sweeney,  Mildred  L., 
235 

MacKaye,  Percy,  311 
MacMullen,  John,  42 


449 


450 


Index 


Major,    George  Macdonald, 

317,  3i8 
Malone,  Walter,  352,  434 
Mari£,  Peter,  192 
Markham,   Edward,   9,  230, 

276 

Marquis,  Don,  254,  260,  274 
Mifflin,  Lloyd,  250,  422 
Miller,  Joaquin,  400 
Mitchell,  Ruth  Comfort,  349 
Moody,  William  Vaughn,  397 
Morris,  George  P.,  132,  135, 

152,  162 
Munkittrick,  Richard  Kendall, 

313 

Nieuwenhof,  Evert,  17 
Nichols,    Starr    Hoyt,  220, 
249 

Nicholson,  Meredith,  341 
Odell,  Jonathan,  53 
Osborn,  Laughton,  146 
Oppenheim,  James,  271,  306, 

331,  410,  413 
Pound,  Ezra,  429 
Raymond,    George  Lansing, 

36 

Roberts,  Charles  G.  D.,  348 
Robinson,  Edward  Arlington, 

335,  390 
Saxe,  John  G.,  156 
Schauffler,     Robert  Haven, 

245 

Scollard,  Clinton,  2,  15,  72,  81, 

96,  289,  367 
Scott,  Moses  Y.,  114 
Selyns,  Henricus,  25 
O'Sheel,  Shaemus,  430 
Shippey,  Josiah,  78,  105 
Sill,  Louise  Morgan,  35,  50, 

285 

Smith,  Marion  Couthouy,  252 
Stafford,    Wendell  Phillips, 
270 

Stansbury,  Joseph,  62 
Starkweather,  C.  C.,  203 
Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence, 
18,  30,  170,  278 


Stoddard,    Charles  Coleman, 
40 

Stoddard,  W.  O.,  195 
Sykes,  McCready,  224 
Teasdale,  Sara,  268,  298,  354, 

364,  404,  416,  418 
Thomas,  Edith  M.,  304,  423, 

440 

Thompson,  Vance,  389 
Torrance,  Ridgely,  373 
Towne,  Charles  Hanson,  357, 

405,  438 
Townsend,  George  Alfred,  240, 

256 

Trowbridge,  Robertson,  189 
Tucker,  Gideon  J.,  34,  84 
Underwood,  John  Curtis,  228, 

264,  363,  370,  372 
Untermeyer,  Louis,  402 
Upson,  Arthur,  74,  445 
van    Dyke,    Henry,    6,  60, 

214 

Van  Rensselaer,  Mrs.  Schuy- 
ler, 284 

Verplanck,   Gulian  Cromme- 
lin,  no 

Viereck,     George  Sylvester, 

305,  388 
Walsh,  Thomas,  57 
Ward,  Samuel,  191 
Watrous,  Andrew  E.,  91,  122, 

339.  342 
Watts,  Harvey  Maitland,  293, 

369 

Wheelock,    John    Hall,  237, 

286,  316,  378,  419 
Whitcomb,  Seldon  L.,  417 
Whitman,  Walt,  1,  54,  179, 

266,  379,  446 
Whitney,  Helen  Hay,  310 
Whittier,  John  Greenleaf,  68, 

199 

Widdemer,  Margaret,  314 
Willis,  Nathaniel  P.,  142,  144, 

150,  154 
Woodworth,  Samuel,  128,  130, 

134 


<(  Here' s  your  JRock-  a-~way  bcac h 
Clams  :  here's  your Jine 
young,  sa?id  Clams. 


'  Jlny  Oranges,  Limes,  or 
ons  to  day  ?  Very  Jine 
Very  cheap" 


